


Where the Heart Is

by SharpenTheSoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Greenseeing, Jon Snow Knows Something, Love, Mutual Pining, Post Season 8, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Skagos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2020-09-24 17:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 73,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpenTheSoul/pseuds/SharpenTheSoul
Summary: Out of the corner of her eye did she see him constantly. Glimpses of a black cloak, black hair – the same sullen expression that she had come to love. Once during a feast she had sworn to hear his voice drifting over the quiet conversation of the high table.Do you ever think of me?





	1. Chapter 1

The lands beyond the Wall were changing, Jon Snow observed.

With the defeat of the Others came a new beginning for the land – now referred to as the “free lands” by the surviving Free Folk who now inhabited it. Even as far north as he had gone bits of greenery could be seen emerging from the now-melting plains of snow and ice.

In time, the land would be able to heal to what it once was.

“Like I told you already,” he said, downing another gulp of goats milk, the sourness of the drink briefly making his eyes water, “the eggs won't hatch before we return to Hardhome. They've hardly moved since we took them out of the cave.”

But his companions were not at all convinced.

“And what if you're wrong, baby crow?” Tormund asked with a playful shove. “I don't relish the idea of waking up to those fangs sinking into me skin!”

The warmth of the fire helped keep his hands nice and toasty as he listened to their protests. “It was Val's idea, if you have already forgotten.” he said with a gesture towards the spear-wife. “so I do not know why the blame must be upon me!”

The blonde shook her head. “I said it was something to think about, Lord Crow.” she teased, gulping the last of her horn of milk down, “and he goes and does it! You know how to pick them, Tormund.”

“She's your woman and yet she says that?!” Jon could hardly contain his laughter. At his side, Ghost gave a playful nuzzle as he rolled onto his belly.

Tormund looked bashful as he scoffed. “You're just jealous that me member is strong enough to steal such a beauty!” he smirked, wrapping an arm around Val's waist. “You might be the big southern hero now but you'll always be my baby crow.”

More laughter echoed around the fire. “In all seriousness,” Jon finally said, unrolling the seal-skin map hanging at his side, “this trip will be the talk of Hardhome. Just think! We are the first to map even a small part of the Lands of Always Winter.” he beamed as he looked upon his work.

Jon had never been much good with maps but this – it was a think of beauty, even in the fading light around them. _Six months,_ he thought with pride. It had been his idea to venture into the former territory of the Others – and Tormund and his new woman had been quick to volunteer.

“Don't forget the eggs!” Val added, “that is, if we make it back without becoming their first meal.”

* * *

He raised the spear laying at his side, holding it proudly across his lap. The heft was the typical colour of weirwood – a pale brown – but lines of red ran through it all along the outer areas, coiling around the weapon as though it was a snake.

“You forget I've this.” he smirked, “and Longclaw besides.”

The weapon was his pride and joy, hewn from the branch of a tree the trio had found barely a day's journey out of the Frostfangs. Adorned with bits of black from his Watch clothing, it felt as though it was a part of him as much as the Valyrian Steel blade was.

It also fostered a sense of longing. Something the blade did not do.

He had been sure to keep as much red sap running through the weapon as possible – not just because of how it looked, but because it reminded him of her.

_Sansa. _

How long had it been since they had seen one another? It had been when he'd departed King's Landing to sail north. He, taking up the mantle of a black brother once again while she sat as Queen of a free and independent North.

Yet she had never left his mind. Even deep in the Lands of Always Winter, it was visions of her that kept him warm when the winds blew frigid air into his face. What were these feelings? It had plagued him for months with his thoughts of forbidden passion – but what was forbidden about it? They were not true siblings.

He ran a hand along one of the red streaks. To be out here, free from worry that he would be dragged back into the politics of ruler-ship was a liberating and wonderful feeling, yet a piece of his heart remained in Winterfell with her.

If only he could see her again.

A slap to the arm brought him free of his thoughts. “Baby Crow was in a daze yet again, har!” Tormund laughed.

* * *

Jon shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry, I was just thinking of the next mappings.” he lied quickly.

“You may be many things, Jon Snow – but a good liar is not one of them.” Val smirked. “I have seen that look in men before – usually when they come across a woman they wish to steal. This one was the worst.” she gestured to the still-laughing Tormund.

“Bah!” he protested, “I kept me feelings inside and let me member do the talking!”

Rolling the map up, Jon put it back into the satchel on his belt. Gazing up towards the darkening sky, he said a silent prayer for Sansa – that she was safe, whole, healthy and happy.

A snicker came from Tormund as he watched Jon again. “Baby Crow's attention is back with his wolf queen.” he nodded with approval as Val shoved him playfully. “Not the first time I've seen it! Even when we were in the spider caves -”

Jon blushed. “We killed the matriarch. If I recall, I shoved it in the eye with my spear.” he blurted out, desperate to avoid the topic. “My heart is my own, Tormund. After all I have done -”

* * *

“Bah. All you've done?” he asked. “From what you told us, you saved a lot of lives. The Dragon Queen was going to keep fighting. Who knows? She might have wanted us to bend our knees to her.”

_Build the new world with me. _

Daenerys's words still echoed in Jon's mind – and nothing could permanently silence them, it seemed.

In one fell swoop he had become a kinslayer, kingslayer and an oathbreaker all in an instant. Something he – and the rest of the Six Kingdoms – was taught to despise.

“I do not deserve to feel.” he sighed. This was his freedom but it was also his punishment. The Unsullied were gone, sailing away to Naath; they would not know if Jon left for Winterfell or elsewhere.

Even his thoughts of Sansa were painful – thoughts he did not deserve to have. _What person would love me now? I am a base-born monster. Worse then the Kingslayer. Worse then the Mad King or Euron Greyjoy. _

“You wallow in your sorrows too much, crow.” Val reached out and squeezed his arm in a remarkably sympathetic gesture. “Love is love. Nothing – no actions taken – can take that from a man. Besides, you are one of us now. Free to choose. Fuck the kneelers – if they want to condemn you, let them. But I have a feeling that your wolf queen still loves you.”

_I know what is good. _

Jon finished the last of his milk, belching softly. “Perhaps – perhaps when we return to Hardhome I can check with one of the trade ships from White Harbour. See if there is...is any news of Winterfell, perhaps.” he offered.

“No, no no.” Tormund forced himself beside Jon, gently shoving Ghost out of the way. “What you are going to do, my little crow – is go back south. You're going to walk into Winterfell and find your wolf queen. Then, you're going to tell her 'I love you, my queen' – and kiss her!”

Val rolled her eyes. “If he tries that they will geld him for sure. Still, it is not a bad idea...”

* * *

“Enough!” Jon shook his head. “Please, both of you. Let...let me think about all of this. Let me get some...some sleep. My head is pounding.” Thoughts of red hair swam in his mind – it fluttered across his spear and glimmered in the night sky.

He had lied to Daenerys – something he regretted. He had sworn she was his queen, now and always – just before he had ended her reign before it had a chance to begin. But that was not true; his queen still lived and had held his heart since their reunion in Castle Black a lifetime ago.

As Val and Tormund continued to drink, Jon caressed the red lines on his spear. Soon, they would return to Hardhome – and he would placate the pair by pretending to look about for information on Sansa.

But this was his punishment. He could not simply abandon the exile he was sworn to – it was what he deserved for violating the sacred laws of the realm. No, this was what must be; his heart must ache and he must be condemned to distant wishes and prayers.

_Be well, my love. Long may you reign._

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry this will have a happy ending when I am able to get that far!!

Sansa had modelled her council after the kind kept down in King's Landing, the only remnant of the starry-eyed girl that had once dreamed of royal children and knightly tales from the stories she had loved so.

But that girl is dead. In her place was a Queen of a free and independent North; one that would never be subject to the whims of the once-Iron Throne ever again.

“...the harvests will be increased by one quarter come the planting season, Your Grace.” her castellan explained. Ser Edwyle Proudwell was an able and leal administrator having served since her coronation one year ago. “As per your instructions, Barrowtown and The Rills will increase their harvests by half to make up the shortfall.”

She nodded. The coming spring was on the mind of everyone. Yet, even as they discussed the food situation did she find her mind wandering north.

Out of the corner of her eye did she see him constantly. Glimpses of a black cloak, black hair – the same sullen expression that she had come to love. Once during a feast she had sworn to hear his voice drifting over the quiet conversation of the high table.

Do you ever think of me?

* * *

She often wondered if Jon held the same thoughts – a foolish notion given how her luck with romance had turned out. However, since they had reunited at Castle Black – something that felt ancient history – her heart had betrayed her once again.

“Is there any other business to discuss?” she said, pulling her mind back to the council.

Lord Roger Ryswell rose and offered a bow. “There is, Your Grace.” he looked about the room, unease filling his eyes. “This upcoming trip to Hardhome – I must once again offer my strongest objections to such a move.”

_The same song and dance. _

She understood and appreciated the man's concern for her well-being, but the Free Folk were allies of Winterfell, especially given their role in protecting the castle and its people from the dead.

“I understand your position, my lord.” she folded her hands onto the table, “but this mission will be both one of trade and expansion of relations. Hardhome is now the only major settlement the free folk possess; it is important for Winterfell to maintain ties with them.”

Ryswell nodded. “I understand, my lady. Truly, I do – yet...” he wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. “is it wise to consort with Jon Snow? His blood is of the same as the Mad King. As that of Daenerys Targaryen.”

Before she could respond in earnest a loud scoff came from her right. “Jon Snow has done more for Winterfell and the North then any other man in this room, Ryswell.” Ser Marc Manderly protested. The burly warrior was the North's Master of Arms, and – to Sansa's relief – one of Jon's strongest supporters. “No man who knows him can question his loyalty or love of our land.”

* * *

“Even still -” Ryswell pressed on. “the blood of House Targaryen is tainted. Look to the burning ruins of King's Landing for the proof, Manderly.”

Sansa felt her anger rising, and she bit down on her cheek in an attempt to control her temper. The disrespect some in the North showed Jon – a man who had literally sacrificed himself for them – was one of the few things to truly stir her from her careful composure.

The Jon she knew fought and kept fighting for home. The Jon she knew made all of this possible.

The Jon she knew took her into his arms and made her feel safe and secure after the horrors inflicted upon her by both Ramsay Bolton and an indifferent North.

“May I remind you, my lord, that it was _Jon Snow_ who fought for House Stark – and by extension, Winterfell – when others would not?” she spat. House Ryswell had been close allies to House Bolton – a point of some consternation even now – and she would not allow Jon to be slandered by a member of a house that allowed Roose and Ramsay to reign unmolested. “He slew Daenerys Targaryen to protect us. To protect the thousands of innocents that we rule over.”

Ryswell had the grace to look ashamed.

“I know no man who would willingly bear the stains of kin-slayer, king-slayer and oath-breaker save for him.” Manderly added with a reassuring nod. “He was the man we chose as our King, and he gave it up to see that we survived until dawn.”

Sansa looked at the black fabric that adorned her dress.

The grey and black motif was – officially – to represent House Stark and the sacrifices that the North had made in the past years.

Unofficially, the black represented Jon's sacrifice; to be exiled back to the Wall, condemned for an act that was necessary to save the lives of all of Westeros, perhaps.

“On the question of blood, my lords -” Maester Wolkan, seated at Sansa's left spoke next. “- respectfully, House Targaryen's madness was caused due to the consistent incest that produced their members. Brother-sister incest carried down the generations. Lord Jon's parents were not of the same union as that, and thus the chances for any blood taint would be greatly diminished.”

She looked to the older man with a smile. Sansa felt regretful that she had once distrusted him as he had spent most of his service at the Dreadfort with the Boltons – but he had been nothing but kind to her during her imprisonment as Ramsay's wife, slipping her moon tea on several occasions.

Yet this conversation strayed into irritating territory.

Sansa slammed a fist down on the table. “With respect, my lords – _enough_. The matter has been settled; I will travel to Hardhome with the trade ship from White Harbour. I thank you for your input and advice, as always. If there is nothing else, I dismiss you to your duties.”

* * *

As her council filed out of the room Sansa gestured to a figure standing in the corner, garbed in the armour of a Stark soldier. This was Commander Raymon Snow, who she had appointed as head of her household guard.

“Commander, what do you make of their concerns?” Sansa asked.

Resting his helmet under an arm, the commander shook his head. “I have seen to the preparations of your visit north, Your Grace.” he said with a nod. “You will have no less then two-and-ten of your household guard, myself included with you. That should be sufficient to protect you from any threats we may face. Personally, I doubt that we would face any – the free folk still hold us in high regard.”

That was thanks to Jon.

He had stood for them when no one else would; because a greater threat had to be faced. Petty squabbles between tribes and houses meant nothing to the dead. Thankfully, with the threat vanquished the majority of the hatreds had died out as well.

“I know not why they condemn him so.” she sighed. “You have fought with us since we retook Winterfell, Commander Snow. Would you think Jon capable of hurting me or any of our people?”

Raymon raised a slender eyebrow. “If I may speak free, Your Grace?”

He continued after receiving her nod of assent. “Jon Snow is a fine man. A fine warrior, a fine leader and a fine son of the North. Yet some of the same lords who hailed him as king now condemn him because of the dragon's blood.”

“Jon is as much a Targaryen as I am a Greyjoy!” Sansa grumbled. “He killed Daenerys Targaryen. His own aunt and the woman he pledged was his queen.”

The man's frown deepened. “Aye, Your Grace. I was there at King's Landing the day she rained dragonfire upon it. The slaughter was...terrible to behold.”

Yet he stopped her before it was able to come north.

A black cloak caught at the edge of her gaze. Sansa turned quickly to where she saw it flapping only to find nothing, just the door leading into the hall. A shiver ran up her spine as she saw his smile in her mind's eye.

“Are you ill, my lady?” Raymon asked her, putting a hand on her shoulder with concern.

Shaking her head, Sansa rose to her feet. “I am fine, Commander. Thank you; just looking forward to another diplomatic effort.”

_Do you still think of me, Jon Snow? In the cold wastes far from home – where you should be – do you love me as I you? _

_May the gods bring you back to me once again. _

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to Hardhome for Jon, Val and Tormund brings news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sansa chapter up next in a few days! Just need to rest my aching hands(nerve damage sucks for us writers T_T)

Jon still had a hard time seeing Hardhome as it was; rebuilt into a proper settlement, known as the “city of the far north” with an active trading port, where ships from as far as Oldtown came to ply their goods in exchange for furs, skins and the like.

He still remembered the slaughter unleashed upon the settlement by the Night King. The screams and roars of the dead occasionally echoed in his head, though not to the same extent as they had when the wildlings had first returned here.

Still, it was good to be back.

“Let's see it, King Crow!” shouted one of the wildlings crowding around him.

A spear-wife pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “I bet he's lying, like that Tormund with his giant member!” she bellowed, causing laughter to erupt around her.

Taking hold of the fang – plucked from the maw of the freshly dead ice spider matriarch – Jon held it out for them to see. Perched atop some old crates, he smiled as the men and women mumbled excitedly with his trophy.

_What a fight it was! _

Jon still felt the surges of adrenaline through his body whenever he looked at the fang. The great spider's hairy, fat legs were as strong as clubs and every narrow miss was enough to shake the cavern around them.

* * *

“Who's lying now!?” shouted Tormund, glaring at the spear-wife. “Me member is twice as long as that thing, but you'll never see it now, har!”

The crowd began to disperse, the men and women going about their day. A cool wind blew softly through the 'streets' – if they could be called that – as Jon and Tormund made their way through the mixture of half-built wooden structures and tents.

“The other chiefs are already clamorin' about the eggs we brought back!” his friend chattered excitedly, “Me daughters want to open 'em up and make pets out of the suckers, har!”

That was not hard to believe. Tormund's daughters – the eldest being two and ten – were almost identical to their father in many ways, save for their sex. Jon enjoyed spending time with them as much as he did their father.

“Brida has some strange ideas.” he said with a snicker. “Though, look at who her father is.”

“Har! Prick!” Tormund slapped his shoulder playfully.

The eggs were secure in one of the many animal pens they had built during the re-settlement – though a wooden gate and fence-posts would do little against ravenous ice spiders should they hatch, it would give them enough of a warning to prepare to fight.

Jon slung his spear over his shoulder, the wood feeling as familiar as Longclaw did now. Every step he took brought the flashes of red into the corner of his eye, and the haunting memories of the old settlement cleared away to make room for Sansa's smile.

“Val's already gone to the great hall to speak with the chiefs!” Tormund was saying, the man giddy with excitement. “We're the talk of the town! Well, more you then me – but me member is long enough to share, I suppose!”

Since their triumphant return two nights ago, the trio had been bombarded with questions, praises and general gossip about their whereabouts. The tales told of the ice spiders only made the gossip grow, and the presence of the eggs touched off both fear and excitement among the people.

Jon was more excited for the map now resting at his side.

The first steps of mapping the unknown – something that was a daunting enough task for any civilized southerner, yet for one of the free folk it was something unheard of.

“They've got a big feast ready for us, you know!” Tormund whispered as they grew closer to the great hall. “Heard it from Munda herself – though don't tell her I went and spilled th' beans or I'll never hear the end of it!”

“Just like we never hear the end of your gigantic member.” Jon chuckled.

_Yes, it was good to be back. _

* * *

“TO THE KING CROW, VAL THE SPEARWIFE AND TORMUND GIANTSBANE!” bellowed the Great Walrus, the man's beefy chins jiggling with his toast. “Warriors, fighters, an' now – conquerors of new lands!”

A cheer went up around them in the hall as the assembled men and women dug into their feast – roasted aurochs, fish and skewered bear meat – and began the meal in earnest.

“Do you ever stop and rest, little crow?” the Walrus asked Jon, turning to where he sat at his right. “By my rights, you've done enough for a hundred hundred lifetimes an' yet you still want more.”

Jon drank deep of his horn before letting out a belch. “I have to outdo this one here,” he laughed, gesturing to Tormund – now in the process of getting into a drinking contest with one of the Thenn sub-chiefs. “and that's not easy!”

The lie came easy to Jon, even though he did not enjoy the deception. _My reasons are my own, even here among friends_. His constant push for new boundaries, new horizons – everything – was to keep his mind off what he left behind.

Who he left behind.

The Walrus laughed. “Still, boy – you've got a long life ahead of ye! I didn't accomplish many of me deeds until I was four and ten!” he explained, shaking his head with a sigh.

Refilling his horn, Jon let the sour milk wash down his throat. Around him, the free folk were frolicking about – fighting, feasting and fucking – as they were wont to do. The freedom to choose, he thought wistfully.

He wished he could choose differently. Choose how his heart felt.

He'd been a fool. His defence – and devotion – to Daenerys had brought nothing but misery, ruin and grief to all of Westeros. He'd followed her like a zealot, accepting her orders and commands without question.

In the process he'd almost lost Sansa.

The one who truly mattered to him.

* * *

_Do you think of me, my love? _His thoughts went back to her, sitting triumphant in the halls of Winterfell – ruling as a Queen should. She was a better ruler then he ever was; ever would be.

She, who had endured the horrors of abuse, trauma and violence at the hands of evil and wicked men.

“The little crow is brooding again!” Val shouted drunkenly from Tormund's side. “Too busy wishing for his wolf queen to enjoy his triumphs, Walrus!”

Jon blushed – causing the big man to pat him on the shoulder with a meaty hand.

“Well ye won't have to wish much longer, my little crow! Rider came from Castle Black last night.” he said with a mischievous grin upon his face. “the wolf queen is sailing here by ship to trade with us, an' she's eager to see you again.”

_Do you think of me as I think of you? _

Jon felt himself growing faint. All around him out of the corner of his eye, he saw flashes of red hair.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa ran a finger along the parchment, reading over the contents of the proclamation carefully. She traced every letter, every word – crafted carefully in her hand – to ensure that it would be enough. _Enough to bring him home. _

The ship had departed White Harbour yesterday, and would reach Hardhome within the week as per the ship's captain.

_One week,_ she mused, _it is still too long. _

With every passing hour aboard Sansa felt her heart beating in her chest, the anxiety building up in waves. She had occupied her time reading over her proclamation, something she would present to Jon and Jon alone upon arriving.

Her council had advised they had no word from Hardhome about his return – that he may still be gone to explore the far-off Lands of Always Winter – but she discarded their beliefs and warnings due to what she felt.

There was a...feeling. Inside of her, something that told her beyond reason that Jon was there.

What it was, she could not say? Was it some kind of bond, formed since the day they had reunited in the courtyard of Castle Black? Was it something new, formed since their farewell upon the docks of King's Landing?

She recalled the feelings of her old self, the child that had gone south with her father to secure her wedding to her “beloved” Prince Joffrey. _Stupid feelings of a naive girl,_ she told herself.

* * *

Love had been something not truly known to her – first Joffrey, then Ramsay, and Littlefinger – but Jon was...different, somehow. For a start, he was nothing like the men she had been forced to endure in her early life.

He was imperfect – as every one, herself included – was, but he was perhaps the only man Sansa felt was pure in mind and intentions. Even when he had sworn allegiance to the Dragon Queen, genuinely bending his knee out of a love for her she could sense it had been pure.

Until she had revealed her true colours. The agony and anguish he felt – Sansa could only imagine.

To put a knife into your lovers' heart to safe your family; it was a choice she was thankful to never have been forced to make.

It was different now that she knew the long-buried truth her father had concealed from everyone for decades. Jon was her cousin – and the torment she felt since their reunion so long ago could end.

The feelings had manifested slowly but by the time they crowned him King in the North she had to admit to herself her love for him was more then brother and sister.

When news had come of his imprisonment in King's Landing by the forces of the Dragon Queen, she'd mustered what forces the North had left and raced down there to set him free. Yet she found indifferent support from the other lords of the realm, and had to be forced to accept his exile from Westeros once again.

A surge of anger went through her as she thought of the “compromise” forced upon them by Tyrion.

Why should he sit now as her brother's Hand while Jon rotted in the far North? _Why should Jon be punished while Tyrion rewarded?_ More then that, the person Bran was...it did not seem to be him any more, not truly.

To Sansa, all that was left was the Three Eyed Raven – a being of unfathomable power and foresight – but who had consumed her little brother heart and soul.

And Jon's friends – including the kindly Ser Davos, with him since the start – had seemingly abandoned him to this fate. Even the fat not-Maester Samwell Tarly had been quick to accept a position in the new King's council.

_I will not abandon him. Not now, not ever._

* * *

Sansa felt her heart flutter as she saw his face in the light of the cabin window. The gentle breeze blowing through the ship caused the black fabric on her dress to flutter softly – something she sat and watched, doing what she could to control her emotions.

Arya was gone, off to explore new lands to the west – and Sansa was unsure if she would ever return, as every expedition that dared venture that way had never been seen again. Bran was seemingly lost to her forever – especially now as King of the Six Kingdoms.

The halls of Winterfell were the seat of her kingdom, but they never felt as lonely as they did now. Some of the faces were familiar, true – but with none of her family there it was as if ruled over by strangers once again.

_I need him back. _She held the proclamation up to her lips and pressed a kiss upon the bottom, leaving a red impression where she had done so.

The lords of the North were continually badgering her for marriage offers and other betrothals, hoping to secure their sons into the line of the ruling house of the North. Sansa knew she had to produce an heir to satisfy them – but she had no interest in marrying some distant lordling's son or nephew to satisfy their desires for prestige.

Jon had always fended off any annoying suitors with his gruff nature and not-so-veiled anger towards them, knowing the trauma Sansa had endured with her past husbands. The memories of such made her smile.

_They never should have sent him away,_ she thought bitterly once again, her fist clenching on the table.

He had done everything to protect the North – to protect the Starks. _To protect me._

No matter the consequences of her actions when news reached the rest of Westeros she would make it right.

Yet she could not help but wonder how their reunion would go, given the pangs of guilt she felt – not about allowing him to be exiled to the far north, but for what happened previously.

* * *

It gnawed at her for the past year; always subtly but never ceasing.

She had sworn before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood not to reveal the secret of Jon's parentage – along with Arya and Bran, who already knew – and she had violated it by exposing it to Tyrion.

_I did it for him,_ she had told herself. Daenerys – who already knew – might see Jon as a threat to her claim on the Iron Throne, so her reasoning was that by exposing the truth to the rest of the realm it would make her think twice about killing Jon.

The nightmares were the worst part. They were infrequent but still jarring; Jon would face her, repeating “Why?” over and over again as his face decayed, worms and carrion claiming it from the inside out.

It reminded her of being forced to view her father's decapitated head upon the walls of King's Landing by Joffrey, so many years ago. She had awoke screaming on several occasions, only to reassure herself that it was not real.

_I did it because I love him. _

Even still it did not sit lightly upon her soul. _I violated a sacred vow, even if for a good reason. _

He told her that there was nothing to forgive before he had departed for the Wall. Yet the doubt still lingered inside her heart; it was clear the revelation had damaged Jon due to the pain she saw in his face when he told them.

She prayed in the godswood every morning – forgiveness for her broken vow, forgiveness from her father who had taken the secret to his grave, and the strength to rule wisely and justly. The silent introspection of the gods of the North made her feel at peace, something she did not feel for a long time.

When he was back home – where he belonged – it would feel like the first step toward that forgiveness in their eyes, perhaps. She understood if he still was angry at her for what she'd done; were she in his shoes, it was likely that the feelings would be the same.

“Home is where you belong,” she whispered. “no matter what my council says. No matter what the eastern eunuchs say.”

The wind blew the black fabric on her dress once again and Sansa smiled.

_I am coming to bring you home. _

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

“Now that's a thing of beauty, little crow.” Tormund whistled, eyes focused on the map.

Jon grinned, rolling the parchment back up and placing it into its case. The map was of the southern reaches of the Lands of Always Winter that the trio explored; he had been sure to mark every major landmark – including the ice spider caverns – on the seal-skin he carried into the wastes.

It had taken well over a day but he had finished transferring the map from the skin to the parchment he kept at Hardhome. “We're the first ones to venture this far north and live to tell the tale.” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “And just think – once the snows recede, we can begin mapping the rest of it.”

Taking a pull from his horn Tormund slapped Jon on the shoulder. “This is the most excited I've seen you in a long time -” he paused to belch, “though there is one problem with that plan; your wolf queen, har!”

_Sansa. _

As much as he disliked admitting it, his friend was right. She was a constant on his mind, no matter how much he drank or feasted with Tormund.

Since he had learned of Sansa's planned arrival it had been almost impossible to get her out of his mind. The cartography certainly helped – indeed, for a while it had been easy to get lost in the careful beauty of quill strokes – but every gust of wind sounded like a woman calling his name.

Every fire he lit since returning flickered like her hair did the last time they had seen each other.

He'd even seen her among the tents and structures of Hardhome, always walking away from him into the horizon with her hair flowing behind her. She looked as she was – a queen – and there was no way that he could compete with such.

Slumping visibly, Jon sighed. “It...it does not matter. You know that I cannot return to Winterfell.” he tried to explain once again, though he knew Tormund would not care about that. _The benefits of being free,_ he supposed.

Tormund pulled up one of the chairs and sat in front of Jon, looking him dead in the eyes. “Listen to me, boy.” he insisted, voice growing somewhat scolding. “You're being too hard on yourself and you know it. For the past year you've been one of us – and what a year it's been! - but your heart. I know it lies back in Winterfell with your wolf queen. You can only pretend so long.”

“I am not pretending.” Jon rubbed his forehead. “Exile is exile. My feelings – they cannot change that.”

Squeezing Jon's arm – _surprisingly gentle_, he observed – Tormund offered a sincere smile. “You two are crazy 'bout each other. I saw it when we were in the south. The way you two looked at each other, talked to each other – hells, touched each other, har! Your wolf queen loves you as much as you her, little crow. I cannot stand you torturing yourself like this.”

_Someone must. _

Everything he had done up until the moment of his exile was a failure. Pledging himself to Daenerys – trying to love her as he did Sansa – and putting all of his trust with her had only lead to misery for the North and for Westeros as a whole.

He had failed to listen to his family – the ones that mattered, he realized much too late – and had paid for his hubris by almost losing them.

“I've failed, Tormund.” Jon whispered, the emotions threatening to bubble up. “Look at the damage I caused.”

“That's on the dragon queen. Not you.” he replied, wrapping an arm around Jon's shoulder. “You stopped her and saved a lot of lives, boy – if what you say is true. And since it's you saying it, I know it is.”

His eyes fell to the weirwood spear, resting against the wall. He stared at the red streaks, a wistful smile drifting over his face. Jon always felt at peace around the weapon; given the red sap reminded him of Sansa, of Winterfell – of home.

“I say when the ship shows up, you go an' meet her.” Tormund was saying, “we'll throw a big feast to welcome the wolf queen an' her kneeler friends. Then, you make your move – and you SHOW her how much your heart yearns for her, har!”

It would be sweet to finally confess his feelings – though the risk was also palpable.

Why would she, a ruler of a free and independent North ever want to love a man like him? They were worlds apart and Jon knew it.

He had already forsaken her once to follow the whims of Daenerys – someone he thought he loved. “I am no better then any of the men who have used and hurt her, Tormund. The sooner you accept that – the easier it is for me.”

Jon fell to the floor, unsure of how he got there.

It was after a moment as he picked himself up and the daze cleared from his head that he realized Tormund had slapped him so hard that it sent him out of his chair.

“The hells you do that for?” he asked, feeling the red mark on his face.

Standing over him, beard glistening by the firelight, Tormund shrugged. “You're sitting here, wallowing in despair and doom – when you've got a chance to grab life by the balls an' finally carve out happiness for yerself!” He reached down and helped pull Jon up to his feet, “so I had to give you a bit of a swat to clear yer head, har!”

“Just meet with her. Come see her in all her wolfy splendour. You'll feel the stirring in yer heart – and your member – and forget all about your sad feelings.” he finished with a broad smile.

_I am not going to get anywhere unless I agree, it seems_.

Jon nodded his assent.

_It will be sweet to see you again, _he thought as her smile shined in the centre of his mind.

* * *

The cliffs overlooking Hardhome gave a good view of the surrounding bay, allowing a well-placed observer to watch any ships as they grew closer to the settlement – be they traders or something less benevolent – and give good warning.

It was here Jon stood, with Tormund, Val, Ghost and the Walrus – as they watched the horizon. A shrivelled old man sat in the snow, eyes rolled into the back of his head. A warg, Jon knew – just as Bran.

“Ekil's the best warg we've got.” the Walrus explained to him, gesturing with a meaty hand, “his bird can fly out over the waters an' see when any kneeler ships are starting to close in.”

“Thought it best to visit him so as prepare King Crow for his wolf queen's visit.” Val teased.

Jon sighed, reaching down to rub Ghost's belly as he rolled in the snow playfully. Even as big as he was the direwolf loved to act as a pup would at times; it made him smile to know that he had not lost the youthful nature even as he was twice the size of any other hunting dog.

“You wound me, spearwife.” he grumbled.

The old man coughed violently, eyes returning to a normal shade of brown. “Ah, Walrus – an' the king crow himself.” he smiled, mouth missing almost all of his teeth. “come to see about your queen's ship, aye?”

_Who hasn't Tormund told? _Jon groaned, rolling his eyes.

“What? I had to tell the folk that our king crow was pining for his queen!” the redbeard laughed, wrapping an arm around Val. “Help find a way to cheer you up!”

“The wolf ship's just passing the cannibal islands now, King Crow.” Ekil nodded, rubbing some snow onto his face with a contented sigh, “should be ready to dock with us in one or two days, depending on the wind.”

The Walrus wrapped his arm around Jon's neck, pulling him into a side hug. “See?! An' in one or two days our little crow will be ready to dock with his queen.”

Jon had to laugh. Even as he heard her laugh echoing in his ears, he continued. Anything to hear it again.

Anything to make it last just a little longer.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love comments!!!

“We've been able to put up a nice big longhall, for all the feasts an' whatnot!” Tormund babbled excitedly, gesturing off into the distance, “we've rebuilt the walls around town an' expanded them, so as to keep out any wild beasts. Starting to look like a real kneeler town, har!”

Sansa laughed, shaking her head at the man's exaggerated laugh. “Soon Hardhome will be the envy of even Winterfell should you keep things as they are, _Ser_ Giantsbane.” she teased, knowing how much the man hated titles.

That drew a laugh from the other wildlings gathered around the pair as they walked.

Her escort kept a careful eye on the women, children and greybeards who came by; the first queen they had ever met, she knew.

It was good to make an impression – especially on folk who are known for refusing to accept any authority.

“We do not kneel” was the motto of the free folk; despite their stubborn independence they had welcomed her with respect, knowing that the Starks had defended them against the Night King and helped them in their darkest hour.

_That is not my legacy, _Sansa knew. _It is Jon's. _

He had been the one to fight for the wildlings when no one else would.

Who else had turned an enemy into a friend as he? This was his victory – his true, lasting victory.

“You wound me, Lady Stark!” Tormund was saying as he cackled. “I ain't no ser; we free folk work for a living! Har! No offence meant, o'course.” he added as an afterthought.

Sansa waved it off. “None taken – I am sure the supplies I brought will be put to good use by the hard-working free folk all about, then.” she patted his arm, “In one year's time, look at all you have accomplished. The people of the North – the far North to many – have taken something decimated by the coming of the Others and rebuild it into your own.”

She turned to face the crowd that had formed, their eyes fixed upon her. “I see no savage wildlings here; no frothing cannibals ready to rend and tear. I see men and women who have built something; something free.”

A general chorus of applause and agreement went up from the gathered.

“King Crow wasn't wrong!” Tormund mused. “You sure know how to lead an' inspire!”

_All eyes upon me, save the ones I want._

Sansa was not surprised that Jon was nowhere to be seen in the crowd, or among the wildling leaders who gave her the tour of their settlement.

_Has he forgiven me? Does he still hate what I did? _The questions burned brighter then ever in her heart, and as much as she wanted to ask – no, demand – Tormund and the others to tell her where he was she had a duty to perform as Queen.

“I simply speak the truth as I know it.” she said, folding her hands in front of her. The material on her dress – both grey and black – fluttered in the gentle, cool winds that seemed a constant here. The cold was no trouble – she was of the North, after all. Ice was in her veins.

Her eyes fell on the black material as it flowed gently. _Where are you? You need not hide away from me._

* * *

Sansa felt a desperation building in her chest – a fevered anxiety she had not thought possible – with every passing moment he was not there. “Tormund,” she asked, gesturing towards a nearby fence. “May we speak in private a moment?”

Ending his tale – something about how his “giant member” slew a dozen ice spiders – Tormund followed her over to the fence as the crowd chatted excitedly among themselves.

“How can ol' Tormund help you, m'lady?” he smiled, resting an arm on the wooden fence.

She found the words stuck in her throat. It was as if part of her did not want to know where Jon was – so as to remain anxious and trembling as she had for a year. _I am Queen_, she reminded herself. _I must command myself with authority and grace. _

“I....would ask where he is.” she was able to finally choke out, keeping her face as neutral as possible; it would do her no good to show a hint of emotion even here; weakness was weakness, even among those who considered her and the North as true friends.

As Sansa expected Tormund did not judge her or act surprised at her struggle. “You miss him as he does you, like I been trying to tell him!” he nodded sympathetically. “All this time King Crow has been beatin' himself up how he's not worthy of you an' so on. Sometimes I wonder if he ever changed from when I first met him – he was just as gloomy then, har!”

“Don't worry, though – I'll take ya to him right off.” he finished with a smile.

Taking his arm – waving off the alarmed protests of her guards – Sansa allowed the man to walk her through the makeshift streets, away from the main crowd of admirers and officials. 

* * *

They stopped before a small house off towards the northern edge of the town, nearest to a watchtower that was still being assembled. It was there that Sansa saw the white shape of a direwolf again as Ghost rushed through the snow to greet her.

She was shocked at how big the wolf had gotten; he was easily twice the size he was when she'd seen him last at Winterfell yet he was still the same affectionate companion as he had been then. “Oh, hello Ghost!” she laughed as the big wolf nudged at her excitedly.

“He's a good beast, this one.” Tormund nodded approvingly. “Shoulda seen him up in the ice caves. Ripped off a spider's leg that was twice the size o'him, har!”

Given the tide of dead that she'd once thought impossible, Sansa believed him when he spoke of it. “I do not doubt it – yet he looks just as healthy as ever.” she observed, rubbing behind the wolf's ears as he continued to nuzzle her.

“Plenty of hunting up here -” a gruff voice announced from the front of the house, “- though I must say that Ghost's never caught himself a Northern Queen before.”

Her eyes shot up to the source of the quip.

It was the first time in a year she laid eyes upon him. The whole reason for her visit.

_Do you think of me? _She wanted to shout. To scream, to cry and to curse.

Yet she settled for what came next.

Sansa threw herself into Jon's arms before he could react.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay. work and all that!! again, i love comments so let me know what you think. I think it sucks but that's just my self-deprecation lol

The interior of Jon's home was rustic and simple – just as he liked it. “I built most of this myself – save for some help from Tormund.” he said, waving a hand around the room.

Sansa – her face still red and a smile firmly affixed upon her lips – nodded as she looked over the interior. There was a bed, a table and two chairs, a chest of drawers and in the far left corner, a small attachment where a privy would be.

Taking a step forward Jon opened his mouth to speak – only to be pulled into another tight, loving hug before he could react. He smiled, resting his hands upon Sansa's back, the smell of her perfume teasing his nostrils.

He did not want to leave this moment; not now or ever.

_Forget everything_, he thought. _This is what I have waited a year for. _

Pulling out of her embrace, Jon took her hands gently in his own. “I am glad to see you too, Sansa.” he whispered in admiration. She looked the same as she had when he had last laid eyes upon her, but she carried herself far more as a Queen would – _as she deserves. _

“I've wanted to see you for months now.” she said, her fingers gripping his own tightly. “yet the business of rule is harsh upon my private life.”

Jon nodded. Something he knew all too well – it would do no good for the Queen in the North to take off to cavort with wildlings, especially those who held a kinslayer among their ranks such as he. “You look...as a Queen should.” he smiled, a flush creeping across his cheeks.

_Regal and beautiful,_ he yearned to say. But it was too soon – too intimate – for him to say something as that to her.

“And you look as a free man should.” she teased, resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch sent shivers down Jon's spine – as every touch with her did – and he found himself growing steadily anxious in the moment.

He needed to take their mind away from such touches, such feelings and thoughts. Thinking quickly, he gestured her towards the table in the centre of the room. “I have something to show you, Your Grace -” he smiled - “something I think would prove interesting to us both.”

* * *

Rolling out the parchment, he quickly drew out one of his chairs as she seated herself upon it. “A map,” Sansa observed, studying it with a finger. “I suppose this is what Tormund meant when he spoke of your journey into the far North?”

“Aye – the first map of the Lands of Always Winter. Well, at least the eastern edges of it.” he admitted sheepishly. “I marked down the major points of interest we found – even though there was very little but slowly-thawing ice.”

Sansa looked to him with a glimmer in her eyes. It was then Jon took note he was beaming – the map was a source of pride for him, and it was one of the things he had taken genuine love and care in ensuring the information was accurate.

“You should be proud, Jon.” she said, running a hand along the edges. “The first man to venture so far North and live. You continue to build upon your legend, especially given how the free folk speak of you.”

_How do you speak of me, I wonder? _Jon's mind turned back to her – he watched as she continued to study the map, her fingers lithe and swift along the parchment. Her hair glimmered gently in the mid-day sun.

_If a perfect image in one's eye exists, this must be it. _

“Here...” Jon reached down, gently guiding her hand to a marker. “...this is where we found the ice spider cave.”

The touch of her hand sent another jolt up his spine, and he found the words choking in his throat. He felt the blood in her hands, even through the thick gloves she wore. Felt her flawlessly smooth skin – if he focused he could feel the life emanating from her body itself.

Sansa looked up at him, the blush upon her cheeks deepening. “Slew the matriarch, or so the folk say.” she managed to whisper, her own voice halting and curt.

“It took Tormund, Val, Ghost and myself to do it.” he replied quickly, his thumb tracing circles in the palm of her hand. His heart was beating faster then it had in a long time; Jon felt the heat within his mind stirring to the surface, wishing to express the passion and desire he felt for her here and now.

An air of silence hung over them as neither one moved; Jon simply stared down at Sansa, his thumb continuing its circuit on her hand. In turn, the Queen stared at him with a slight smile upon her lips. “I...I may not have been honest at my true comings here, Jon.” she said, finally breaking the torturous moment for them both.

Rising from the chair, Sansa turned to face him, fumbling at her belt pouch as she pulled out a letter, rolled and sealed with the direwolf. With trembling hands she offered it to him. “We did want to come here to engage in trade, that part is true – but...” she shivered, eyes darting to the floor.

Jon rested his hands upon her arms, rubbing them as gently as he could. “Take your time, Sansa.” he whispered, “do not feel rushed or demanded of here. I promise you that I will listen when you are ready to speak.”

“Winterfell is empty.” she said after a moment's thought. “I sit as Queen of a free North, yet the very home that we fought so hard to reclaim and hold feels as cold as the Others themselves did.” Sansa gestured to the letter, “it has been a year, Jon – without you. Without Arya or Bran or anyone. The faces that greet me every day are strange and unfamiliar, no matter how much I try to know them.”

“I will not mince words.” she said, reaching up to caress his cheek, causing Jon's heart to nearly leap from his chest. “I need you. Back in Winterfell, where you belong.”

* * *

To Jon, this was his home.

He had left behind the politics and petty squabbles of the South to live among the free folk – partially as penance for his own dishonourable actions – but it was here that he felt truly free. No one forced him to lead or command. He was able to choose his fate; and it was perhaps the greatest result of his exile he could think of.

Yet as much as he tried to bury it, part of him still remained in Winterfell – not simply because it was the home he had spent so much time in, and shed so much blood for, but because it was where Sansa was.

He felt his lower lip quiver. “You know I cannot return.” he sighed, placing the letter upon the table. “The conditions of my exile were clear – if I return, I put you and Bran in danger of retaliation. I will not have more blood on my hands.”

Enough already was upon him - blood of his own kin, besides.

Sansa shook her head. “I have already spoken to Bran. The Unsullied have sailed away for good and the remaining lords – save perhaps the Ironborn – understand what you did. Many of them appreciate the fact that someone was able to halt Daenerys's campaign before it became even more destructive.” she rested her hand upon his cheek, causing him to lean into the touch.

“But forget what others think. _I _need you.”

Jon could not meet her gaze. “I have done horrible things, Sansa. I am a kin-slayer, a monster worse then any before. I put a knife in her heart; a woman of my own blood. Even...even if my heart wishes for the outcome to be different -”

“What does your heart say, Jon?” she asked quickly, her hand trembling upon his cheek.

“I...I loved her, once.” he admitted, tone soft and ashamed. The love he'd once felt for Daenerys was long departed – the revelations about his bloodline had severed the thoughts from his mind, and her actions in the south had only completed the general disgust he felt for her at the end.

But it did not change what he'd done. The guilt he'd buried himself in for the past year. “and I killed her. No matter for good or ill – that is something I will carry for the rest of my life. But the past year has been good to me, Sansa; the free folk are thriving, and I am able to build a life for myself here away from the needless bickering of the South.”

Before she could respond, he risked a hand upon the gentle curve of her hip. “But...do you know what kept me warm during those nights in the Frostfangs and beyond? Aside from the furs, Tormund's copious supply of spirits and my shelters? Thoughts of you.”

It was here, in the open. He could not go back.

“Come home.” she whispered, leaning into him. Her body rested against his, their strained breaths now barely audible gasps. “I...I would see you serve as envoy for the free folk. You would sit on my council as you deserve. Tormund can...can come too, if you like. But most of all – come home. Please, Jon.”

Her lips were only a second away. Jon felt his legs growing weak as they hovered here, in this purgatory between their passions. “Sansa...” he moaned, her name a jolt to his already strained heart.

* * *

“I see you sometimes, around the castle.” she shuddered, “in the corner of mine eyes. I will beg if you wish me to -”

His lips crashed against her own in a haze. Jon felt the intensity that he had suppressed being dragged to the surface – as though he was stirring from some corpse-state where he had been able to exist upon the fringes of life itself.

A tear fell from Sansa's eye as she pressed into him, and Jon's own eyes grew wet as he held her gently, their lips remaining locked for what felt like a blissful eternity. It was only when he felt his breath growing short that he reluctantly pulled his lips from hers, only a small distance.

“You need not beg, Sansa.” he assured her, the heat from their breaths causing the room to grow increasingly hot. “All of mine life, my heart is yours. I cannot deny what I have hid since the day we came together at Castle Black once more.”

She smiled, gently taking his hands and pulling him over to his bed. Taking a seat upon it, she gazed up at him, pressing her lips to his palms. “Can we stay here for a while?” she asked. “Just the two of us. No titles or burdens.”

“I would stay here forever with you.” Jon said as he sat down next to her, brushing her hair as he kissed her once again.

Forever was as long as they wished it to be.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay folks, a mixture of writers block and work has had me down! I will be doing my best to get back to normal soon.

_Be with me. Build the new world with me. This is our reason. It has been from the beginning, since you were a little boy with a bastard's name and I was a little girl who couldn't count to twenty. We do it together. We break the wheel together..._

_You are my Queen. Now and always...._

_Always..._

_always..._

* * *

“Jon!” Sansa shook him awake. “Are you alright?”

With a gasp Jon returned to the waking world, drawing in a harsh and ragged breath as he looked around frantically, his brain trying to process what he had seen. An agonizing minute passed as he realized that the dream was just that – a dream.

_I am at Hardhome with Sansa. _

A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he smiled sheepishly at her. “Sorry to disturb you.” he sat up, resting his hands in her lap. “my dreams...are sometimes troubling.”

He had not meant to fall asleep; yet the sensation of laying in Sansa's arms had caused his tired and aching body to collapse from exhaustion; perhaps it was mental or physical, he could not say. Still, they had much to do and to prepare. “The feast...” he said, looking with concern to the door.

Sansa patted his hands softly. “Relax. It has only been an hour, perhaps less. My guards asked if I was well, but other wise it has been quiet. It seems Tormund is giving us 'time to talk', or so it would seem.” she chuckled. “Your doing, I assume.”

“Aye,” he grinned. “It was him who kept pushing me to embrace my feelings. I suppose I owe him for that.” Jon took a hand and brushed it through Sansa's hair gently.

Blushing, she moved her hands to his chest. “Do you want to speak of your dream? You were thrashing and crying out.” Sansa knew all about horrible dreams; during her captivity in Winterfell at Ramsay's hands, she often dreaded sleep.

He looked away, guilt clouding his eyes. “You don't want to hear about them, Sansa.”

“I do. Please, Jon. You know I've woken up screaming from nightmares before. I want to support you.” she assured him softly.

With a nod, he inhaled sharply before continuing. “Daenerys.” he sighed, “I keep hearing the last words she spoke to me before I...I killed her. Only her words and mine echo in my head...and then all is consumed by fire and blood.”

“I would say your guilt is misplaced, but – I do not wish to reopen old wounds between us.” she replied with a cautious tone.

At that Jon reached out to stroke her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “No wounds exist between us, Sansa. I promise you. I was angry, perhaps – that you revealed my secret I trusted to you – but that anger has long since passed.”

Jon saw the guilt flash in her eyes. “Jon – about that, I wanted to say the reason...I did it to protect you. With the news of who you were out there I thought that it would make Daenerys think twice were she to move against you. I promise...I did not do it out of hate or anger.”

It felt good, Jon mused, to bear his soul again.

His words were true – he had no hatred in his heart for Sansa, especially now.

She was all he thought of from Hardhome to the Frostfangs, practically. “I know,” he assured her with a smile, “even without it becoming public knowledge, I would have had to make a choice.”

Aegon Targaryen or Jon Snow.

That had been the choice, truly. It had all boiled down to that.

* * *

“Just like now,” Sansa said with a nod. “You and Tormund, if he wishes to come with, will sit on my counsel and be my advisors on all things related to the Free Folk. Don't worry -” she held up a hand as he opened his mouth, “-they will not be subjects of the crown, but rather allies.”

Jon nodded. It was a good idea – one he felt ashamed of not thinking of sooner – but would he be up to the task? “I have been away from the politicking for a year now, Sansa.” he replied with a smile, “truth be told I would not know where to start.”

“Too many in the North still see the Free Folk as savages,” she sighed, shaking her head. “despite the efforts of myself and others who know better. Your presence would serve to show them how wrong headed and foolish they are.”

Rising slowly from the bed, Jon chuckled. “It does have a certain appeal. Though I have to ask...what about us?” he said, turning towards her as she stood next to him, taking his hand in her own.

“What about us?” she repeated, squeezing his hand tightly. “I am Queen – whom I wish to love is no one's business. I have made that abundantly clear to every lordling who has offered their sons or themselves in proposal.”

Bringing her hand up to his lips, Jon pressed a kiss to it – not wanting to let go. “And what would those lordlings say if their Queen fell in love with a kinslaying exile who now represents the wildlings?”

“I don't care what they say. We do not choose who we love.” Sansa rested her head against his shoulder.

* * *

A loud knock made both of them jump as boisterous laughter echoed around them. “Are you done in there, baby crow? We're waitin' for the two of you to start the feast! Har!” came the jovial call of Tormund.

Sansa shrugged, the smirk still tugging at her lips. “Well we would not want to disappoint your adoring crowd, 'baby crow'.”

_I'll never live that one down,_ Jon groaned to himself.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay update!

Sansa groaned, her eyes heavy as she tried to stir herself awake.

Her vision was greeted by Jon's cabin, where she lay on the bed next to him, his arms wrapped tight around her waist. She smiled, a blush creeping onto her cheeks as she ran a hand over one of his own, watching as he slept.

The night's feast was something special, she mused. From what little she could recall – her memory hazy at best – it was a lively and joyful affair; the free folk feasted on a wide range of dishes from freshly caught bay fish to some of the pork and meats brought from Winterfell.

And the goat's milk. The headache began anew, the pins and needles driving into her forehead.

A loud snore from across the room made her realize they were not alone. Narrowing her eyes, she focused enough to see Tormund sleeping against the far wall, his spear-wife companion Val resting in his arms. At his feet were several empty horns.

She stifled a laugh. _It seems we had a wonderful evening._

Turning back to Jon she brushed at his locks of hair. He looked peaceful when sleeping, the weight of the world that he had endured for so long released at last.

_Yet I am dragging him back into the politics. _

In truth she did feel somewhat guilty in asking him to return; she knew from the way the Free Folk were towards both him and herself that life up here was far more free and casual then it would be at Winterfell. As Jon said, to the Free Folk blood meant nothing; no one was forced into roles they did not wish simply due to their lineage.

But she also knew what he said at the feast last night, the memory one of the most prominent in her mind.

_Despite how I love it here_, he had slurred, _my heart always belonged to you at Winterfell. _

“It is all thanks to you,” she whispered, placing a kiss upon his brow. “you say I freed the North, but you allowed it to happen.”

It was quite obvious that Daenerys would never allow the North its independence; indeed, Sansa knew she would likely turn back north and demand obedience were she allowed to claim the Iron Throne proper. After what she saw in King's Landing – the blood shed, not only by her and the dragon but by the North's own soldiers – she knew that war was on the horizon.

Yet the pain it caused Jon was also immense. Whatever she had become, Jon had loved this woman at one point in their relationship. As much as it hurt her to think of him in the arms of another, she knew that he had found solace with her.

She had never wanted Jon to feel such pain, such grief. Sansa wanted him to be happy – something all of them deserved after nothing but battle, misery and strife over the past years. In her heart, she wondered if he would ever forgive her.

He claimed that he had, that there was nothing to forgive, even. But she would hold onto that guilt – for revealing the truth of his name, of her failure to secure his release from the ruins of King's Landing, all of it – as it hurt him. Something she did not ever want to see happen.

_But we have to move on. We have to go forward. You have a chance to build something with Jon at your side. Something beautiful._

But that was the past. Sansa chided herself for thinking of what had been rather then what will be. 

* * *

A groan brought Sansa's gaze back to Jon as his eyes fluttered open.

“Good morning,” she whispered, kissing his cheek softly. “It seems we had a...fun filled evening.”

Jon shook his head, groaning further as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. “It would seem so.” he whispered with a chuckle, his lips finding hers within moments.

_So much simpler here,_ Sansa thought. _I could stay here forever; become a free woman, learn the art of spear-wifery. We could have children, little red-headed babes running loose around while Ghost tries to catch them. _

She smiled at the possibility. But she knew her place was in Winterfell with Jon at her side.

* * *

From across the room Tormund and Val woke from their slumber, the big bearded man letting out a loud belch as he did so. “Ahh, nothin' beats a good feast!” he beamed, watching the pair on the bed. “Seems our two love birds enjoyed it too, har!”

Jon rubbed at his eyes, pain evident in his expression. “Tormund, please! Not so loud..” he pleaded as Sansa helped him sit up. “Remind me to never drink that much goats milk in one sitting again. My head feels as though it will explode.”

Val pulled herself to her feet, running her hands through her hair. “Baby Crow can't hold his spirits – as usual.” she smirked.

Sansa looked over to Tormund, unable to recall if she'd made the offer to him. “In our...enthusiasm last night, I do not remember – did I explain the offer I made to Jon?” she asked, “That you would be welcome to come to Winterfell to serve as ambassadors to the Free Folk?”

“You did!” Tormund grinned, wrapping an arm around Val. “And I believe me answer was 'when do we leave!'”

“Y'don't have to...” Jon insisted, slumping against Sansa as she sat him up. “The Free Folk need their leaders too.”

Val – who pulled herself free of Tormund's grip – shrugged as she went to aid Sansa. “The Walrus can handle things around here with the other sub-chiefs, little crow. Besides, you don't think that Tormund and you can just sail off into the sunset alone, do you?”

“That's why we're going to bring a couple o'the strongest folk to act as our guards!” Tormund finished for her, causing the spear-wife to roll her eyes in annoyance. “No offence to the wolf queen, of course – but some of th' kneelers in the south won't much like us bein' there.”

Sansa knew his point was valid; despite all the wildlings had given in the defence of Winterfell, there was still bad blood to be had with many of the houses, especially those of the northern mountains and the coastlines where they had formerly raided.

Jon took her hand, the warmth spreading up her arm at once.

“My hope is that by having the two of you on my council it will help strengthen relations between us.” she said, squeezing his hand tightly.

“I'd say it already has, har!” Tormund laughed, earning him a glare from both Jon and Val.

“I mean between Hardhome and Winterfell.” Sansa said quickly, trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck.

“He's just being a twat,” Val griped. “don't worry about him too much.”

Rising from the bed, Sansa stretched her arms out and yawned contently. “The ship leaves for White Harbour whenever we are ready. There is no rush for us to leave now.”

Tormund – who by now was searching the empty horns at his feet for a drop of goat's milk – shrugged. “Well, th' feast is over and everyone's ate, drank and are merry an' festive! I say we get ready an' head out within the day.”

Jon exhaled, his face betraying a nervous expression. “It will be...good to set foot in Winterfell again.” he mused aloud as Sansa wrapped her arms around him.

Kissing him gently, she rested her head against his back. “You mean, set foot back home.”

_Where you belong. With me. _

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return from the dead!

Jon had come to embrace his time at Hardhome; it was a measure of peace and freedom he felt here that he could not find elsewhere; yet every moment he spent away from Sansa had been one wound after the other to his already battered heart.

“It should take us about two or three weeks to reach White Harbour, based on our time spent coming here.” Sansa explained, resting a hand on his shoulder. Her touch felt wonderful, even though the warmth of his furs. “when we arrive I'll have fresh horses ready for us to make for Winterfell with all haste.”

Looking out over the town, Jon sighed despite himself.

“Is something wrong?” she asked softly.

“No, it's just – I look at what the free folk have built here in the last year and...I am going to miss it.” he admitted. Here, among the people who followed no bloodline or cared about a person's birth, it was easy for him to just be who he wanted to.

Sansa smiled at him, planting a gentle kiss upon his cheek. “This is not goodbye for good, you know.” she explained, “as ambassador to Hardhome you would have to return now and then to...report on trade and other matters with Winterfell.”

“The Queen will need to come with me to see to things, personally.” he teased. “You may not be their queen but they respect you all the same, given what you have done for everyone thus far.”

“They respect _you_.” she insisted, stepping ever closer to him. “You saved them, Jon. You helped give them a chance to start anew in a land free of the Others. You fought for them when no one else would – even I would have hesitated in helping them, given what little I knew of the free folk.”

Jon took her hand from his shoulder and cradled it in his own. “And you saved me. So, it all evens out at the end.”

“If you two love birds are done, we're finished packing!” came a shout from behind them. Turning around Jon spotted Tormund, Val and a half-dozen other Free Folk carrying packs and satchels making their way towards them.

Sansa's guards moved to stop them but she waved them off.

Tormund offered a bow – one that was not mocking or fake, Jon noted – to Sansa as he paused before them. “I got a half-dozen of our best warriors to make the trip with us. No offence to the wolf queen, but some of your fellow southerners won't be liking us too much, as I said before – I know you understand!”

“Perfectly.” she nodded. “In truth I'm rather...relieved that you will have your own protectors. I am sure none of Winterfell's garrison would be happy to follow you around, Tormund.”

Val laughed as she nudged him in the side. “See? Lady queen says you smell – like I've been saying.”

Jon snickered as he pointed towards the ship flying the direwolf. “You can start loading the ship when you like. I just need a moment.” he said, turning back towards Sansa – which drew laughter from some of the warriors.

“Smitten little baby crow!” one graybeard teased as he walked by. Another made kissing noises, guffawing the whole time. All he could do was roll his eyes, playfully swatting the graybeard on the shoulder.

Sansa was speaking with the commander of her guard, a young and fierce looking man with dark brown eyes. “Send the men aboard ship, Commander.” she ordered, “You may remain to watch over me if you wish.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” he said, shouting to the guardsmen.

Jon placed a hand on her hip, causing her to turn back towards him. She smiled and pressed herself into him, the fabric of her dress flowing like the ripples in a pond against the gentle wind. Her eyes rested upon him, the gaze making his body warm and his skin tingle.

“I don't want your guard commander to get jealous.” he teased as they kissed, her lips warm and fierce like the inferno he was used to. “Seeing his Queen like this.”

Sansa giggled, “Commander Snow is professional and loyal to the crown, ser. You have nothing to fear on that regard.”

“Snow?” Jon raised a brow and smirked. “I see you have a thing for bastards, Your Grace. Trying to find a replacement for me already, are we?”

She hit him on the chest, making a sound of fake indignity. “I could have you thrown in the dungeons for such a comment. But I will settle for...” Sansa bit on his bottom lip gently, eliciting a gasp. “..an alternative method of discipline.”

“Seven hells!” shouted Commander Snow, causing the lovers to look over to where he stood. Ghost had trotted his way through the man, coming to sit obediently at their feet.

Jon laughed and reached out a hand. “There you are, boy.” he smiled, scratching him behind the ears – easier to do now that he was almost up to his chest in height - “we're heading to Winterfell, all of us. You must be excited, no?”

Ghost's ears perked up as he heard the word Winterfell, and he licked Jon's hand excitedly.

“Ah, apologies, my lord – I did not expect to see the wolf get so large.” Commander Snow had recovered and approached them, eliciting a brief glance from the direwolf.

“Tormund's told me tales of direwolves as big as one of these houses, Commander.” Jon shrugged, “I wonder if Ghost will be one of them.”

* * *

A great commotion from the town stirred their attention once again. A group of wildlings were rushing down towards the docks, lead by Tormund. “Jon! Lady Sansa! Get up here!” he beckoned, voice sounding urgent.

Quickly they set off towards him, arriving within a moment. “What is it, Tormund?” asked Sansa, looking around at the frightened faces around her.

“You've gotta come see this.” Tormund grunted, gesturing towards the north.

Jon glanced to Sansa who shook her head in confusion. Taking her hand they followed Tormund up towards a small clearing just beyond the first wall of the town, where a weirwood grove sat, littered with offerings this way and that.

_The power of the old gods is strong here,_ Jon mused. He had prayed here before they had departed for the far north with Tormund.

“One o'the watchmen found this on his rounds.” Tormund waved a hand towards the trees.

“What?” Jon asked, clearly not seeing anything out of the ordinary. “I just see weirwoods.”

“The ground.” he replied.

Jon looked down and noticed the spiral pattern almost at once. A sickening feeling began to swell within his stomach as he realized the familiarity of the thing. His breathing grew quicker as anxiety and fear threatened to take hold of his mind.

_The Fist of the First Men. _“It can't be.” he whispered.

Sansa looked at both men. “What is it?”

“The...this symbol. I saw it once at the Fist of the First Men. When...when I was with Mance Rayder and the other wildlings.” Jon explained, “it was left there by...them.”

“The Others are gone. Arya destroyed the Night King.” Sansa shook her head. “I thought that ended them for good.”

Tormund looked even grimmer then Jon. “Aye. They may be gone, but – well. I think we need to gather the elders and talk about this before we set out. You might want to come, Lady Sansa – this will concern you as much as it does us.”

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

The hall was abuzz with chaotic chatter as the sub-chiefs and elders of Hardhome discussed the news. Jon sat next to Sansa, her hand in his. The air was alive with a nervous and frightened energy that he'd not felt since the first time the dead had come to Hardhome – what felt like a lifetime ago for him.

“Alright!” shouted Tormund as the hall fixated upon him. “You all know what we found in the weirwood grove – an' what it means to us here.” Jon noted the anxiety in his friend's voice, even as he tried to exude the confidence that he was famous for.

“It seems fantastic, aye – but the cold ones are here.” he nodded gravely, exhaling a long breath.

Sansa looked to him, but Jon could only shake his head. The Others were gone – Arya had destroyed the Night King, and the dead and their masters had collapsed into oblivion across the walls of Winterfell.

“Jon!” Tormund pointed to him. “When you were with the crows you ran into a fellow named Craster, aye?”

Pulling himself to his feet he nodded. “Aye. He was a 'friend to the watch' or so the Lord Commander claimed.” he recalled, “but he was something far worse.”

“I'll say!” said the Walrus, a scowl across his beefy face. “He weren't right. Helping the crows was bad enough – no offence, baby crow – but the other things he did were darker then anythin' I'd ever heard of before.”

“Even Mance wanted nothing to do with him.” Tormund nodded. “He told me you saw what he did with his sons.”

The memory brought a chill to his spine. “Aye.”

Sansa rose to her feet, resting her hand on Jon's arm. “Forgive me, Tormund – but what did this 'Craster' do exactly and how does it relate to...to what we saw? I am sadly ignorant of this conversation, unfortunately.”

Jon turned to face her and explained about Craster and his children. He watched as her eyes grew wide with horror and revulsion – the same feelings he'd felt when first told about the man and his incestuous practices.

“He would sacrifice his sons to the dead? Monstrous.” Sansa whispered.

Tormund looked about the hall. “Now if he'd been the only one then it wouldn't be anythin' to fuss over. But throughout history we've heard tales...stories of other men an' women who did the same. Offering their sons to the Others – worshipping them as gods, that sort of thing.”

Jon already knew where this was heading. “So, these cold ones are...well, like Craster?”

“It's only folk tales at this point. But the stories make mention of whole tribes of people that live like this, high and deep in the Frostfangs – they give their sons to them and in turn are allowed to live unmolested.” Tormund explained, shaking his head. “No one's ever found any proof of it, though. But that symbol...it can only mean one thing.”

“But the Night King is gone.” Sansa said, “why expose themselves now when their gods...or masters or what have you are destroyed?”

“Revenge.” Jon said simply, his heart beating rapidly. “If the old gods were real and someone killed them, we of the north would want to do whatever we could to rip and tear that person – or persons – to ribbons.”

Sansa looked to the nervous eyes of the elders. “Arya is beyond their reach. She has sailed west to find new lands.”

“Aye, but you an' Jon – and your brother the raven king – are still here in Westeros.” Tormund pointed out, “and they want to avenge themselves on you if they can't reach her.”

“We...we should warn the Watch.” Jon offered. “With Castle Black and Craster's on alert we can double the amount of eyes looking out for them.”

Tormund tuned towards a warrior at the door of the hall. “Vareg,” he commanded, “send your fastest rider to Craster's an' warn them what's happened.” 

The joint Night's Watch-Free Folk outpost set up at the ruins there was a good start, Jon knew - word would spread quickly to Castle Black from there.

“Aye, Tormund.” the man saluted and rushed off.

Jon held Sansa's hand, the fear inside of him starting to bubble up once more. He did not feel fear for himself, but rather for her; she had already endured the horrors of the Long Night as he had, yet now the deranged worshippers of the Others now aimed to see them both dead.

“We...we should stay here in Hardhome, Tormund.” he said with a sigh, “we can send out scouts to -”

“Not a chance, boy!” Tormund bellowed, slapping him on the shoulder. “With you an' Sansa back in Winterfell together, it reduces the chances of them being able to kill one – or both – of you. We'll still sail for the south if the lady wants it.”

It was what he wanted more then anything in the world; anything was worth the cost if it meant he would be able to see her at his side again. Jon felt a wave of nostalgia wash away his anxiety even if only for a moment – he remembered the togetherness and unity they'd felt once Winterfell was theirs again, and the heartfelt affection they shared.

_If only I was able to tell her then,_ he mused. _Perhaps I would not have made such a mess of things. _

Sansa smiled at Jon. “The North still needs envoys from the Free Folk. And given that this crisis affects both my kingdom and Hardhome both, I would still have you return with me.” she said, running her fingers through Jon's own. “Perhaps together we can better find a way to deal with these 'cold ones' before they are able to pose too much of a threat.”

“Are you sure?” Jon whispered, though the relief he felt was palpable even to the both of them.

“Go, baby crow!” shouted the Walrus. “We can handle things here just fine – we'll double patrols 'round the town and start sending out more scouts!” A bellow of approval greeted his statement.

As the room filed out, Sansa folded her arms and shook her head. “I thought we were finished with this Others nonsense.”

“Aye.” sighed Jon, “so did I. But no matter what comes, you know I will keep them from you – even if it means my life.”

Sansa frowned, resting a hand on his chest. “Don't speak like that. I won't have you dying – again. I...I already lost you once to the South, and I won't lose you to madmen from the North, either. Not again – not after what we've had to endure.”

He kissed her, Sansa's body pressing against his own as she sighed into his arms. Every moment with her was reawakening feelings and thoughts Jon had thought dead and buried; he'd been out in the wilderness for so long that thoughts of love and sex were forgotten things.

“Okay okay, you two – wait until we're on the boat.” teased Val as she made her way to the exit.

Tormund laughed, picking up a drinking horn from the main table and downing it. “So! Another adventure begins for us, eh? We won't let the cold fuckers get in the way of that, though – so long as the baby crow is here, Sansa, you know he'll fight life and limb!”

Commander Snow – who had held position at the door with a hand resting upon his sword – stepped over to the trio. “When we return to Winterfell, Your Grace – I will double the guard around you and the castle proper.”

“Easy there, ser kneeler!” Tormund wrapped an arm around the young man, causing him to flinch in both fright and disgust at the pungent odour. “The wolf queen's already got one bastard named Snow pining for her, don't need another now!”

“I am not pining, ser -” the commander insisted, pulling himself free of Tormund's grip, “- I am in charge of the Queen's personal guard and it is my duty to ensure that she is protected.”

Jon looked to the pair. “We should move carefully all the same. If any of these cold ones have reached Winterfell, they could blend in quite easily as servants, guards, courtiers – anything.”

“For now, let us get to the ship. Winterfell awaits.” Sansa leaned back into Jon and placed a kiss on his cheek.

Exiting the hall Jon found himself not as concerned as he should have been with the rising of a new threat – instead, he felt as though his heart was starting to mend. He had kept it shattered and cold since his exile, believing it a deserved fate for a reviled man such as he – but slowly he was beginning to come around. He still felt the guilt gnawing away at him over what he'd done – all of it for the sake of the North – but with time it may come around.

_I do not kneel, but this is my queen,_ he thought with pride as he brushed a hand against her cheek.

* * *

Ovir's tattered robe blew gently in the afternoon as he gazed down into the town._ Wretches all of them, _he thought with contempt. The so called 'free folk' had returned to lands they had no true claim to – the gods had granted Ovir's people rule of this place.

He huffed with anger, the warmth of his breath hanging in his nostrils thanks to the weirwood mask. Just the thought of these people was enough to bring him into a wroth – it had been them along with the hated southerners who had dared strike against the gods.

And against all odds, they were gone. Gone from the world, the bringers of the cold.

“Calm yourself, Ovir.” said the woman beside him. Her voice was almost musical compared to his own gruff and harsh rumbling. “We have made the first steps towards vengeance.”

“Yes, mistress.” he bowed, “forgive me.” He felt somewhat bashful, as though he were a child being scolded by his mother once more.

“There is no need to apologize. Your anger – our anger – is what drives us.” she continued, her deep blue eyes resting upon his mask. Her black hair rested upon her shoulders as she gestured towards Hardhome once more. “We will visit justice upon them all. _Our _justice.”

Ovir smiled, clutching at the talisman at his waist. The symbol a blessed reminder of the cold gods and their strength and influence. Even now he could channel their hatred and their ferocity – this land was theirs, and no amount of settlement would change that.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an experimental chapter so i am really worried about showing it off, basically it goes by a theory I read that Bloodraven/Brynden has basically subsumed Bran's consciousness to control him since the Hodor incident. i hope you enjoy all the same! back to jonsa next chapter

“I thought you might wish for a change of scenery.” the older man observed as he took a seat at the table, lining up the pieces on the chess board. “The same Riverlands inn, every time? It does get dreadfully dull.”

Across from him, the boy shook his head, a sour look upon his face – as ever, the old man mused. “I need something familiar.” he grumbled. “You've taken everything else from me; it is somewhat of a relief you cannot take this.”

Brynden sighed._ It always comes back around._

The nightly visits he held with Brandon Stark – while his physical body slept – had allowed him to keep his mind appraised of the strengths and weakness of his young charge. “Shall we begin?” he asked, both sets of pieces properly arrayed.

Bran moved his first piece forward.

“I thought you might be interested in knowing that Lord Edmure has restored Riverrun to its pre-war state.” Brynden offered as he made his opening move. “It is your mother's home, after all.”

He saw the spark of light twinkle in Bran's eye for the briefest of moments before it faded, the same hardened anger visible upon his face. “What difference does it make?” he asked, “I will never see it again.”

The recesses of Bran's mind allowed them to speak; free of any exertion otherwise inflicted upon the body. Bloodraven was in control – as it was meant to be – but Bran still held onto this portion of his memory, of his brain.

“You already know that my plan – our plan – will see Westeros reborn into a realm of everlasting prosperity and peace. That plan is already well in motion – so I urge you, my young friend, to have faith.”

Of course, it was not easy to ask the boy such from the man who had taken control of his body as he had. With his last body failing him – not to mention the coming of the Night King upon him – it had been an easy thing to project his consciousness into Bran's mind, but it had been another to fully take control.

Yet it had come to pass; Bloodraven had seen the fall of the Others, the death of the Dragon Queen and the rise of King Brandon I Stark, First of His Name. “As soon as the taint of House Targaryen is removed from the land, we will be free to heal.”

“They are gone already.” Bran shot back, moving another piece forward. “Have you not done enough?”

Brynden Rivers shook his head sadly. “While even one dragon lives, the hold upon the throne we have will be at risk.” Another piece of Bran's was taken off the board. “and our quest to build a better world will never truly succeed.”

“You're a Targaryen bastard – so shouldn't you want to kill yourself?” Bran asked, shrugging idly. The emotions wafting off of him was intense – he had seen and felt every event of the past even while Bloodraven controlled his body.

That brought a chuckle to Rivers. “My original body is dead. And besides, has it not been proven that Targaryen rule has brought nothing to Westeros but suffering? Look at how the dear Dragon Queen burned King's Landing. Do you really want that to herald the future?”

“Jon is not Daenerys.” Bran retorted, taking one of Rivers's pieces. “He is my brother.”

Another shake of the head. _Disappointing he clings to this._ “Aegon Targaryen is not your brother. We have been over this, boy; you were the one to see the truth of who he was. So long as the son of Rhaegar Targaryen lives, our realm will be at risk.”

“He _is_ my brother, no matter what you say.” Bran shot back, “You can see the past – my past – among all, yes? You saw my childhood, how we played together, laughed about our sisters – my sisters – together, and bonded all those years. And you call that nothing?”

Brynden took another piece, moving closer to his king. “I do not call it nothing, Brandon. Your father's actions were noble. Yet, his desire to preserve the last piece of his sister's legacy has complicated things for the realm.”

“We – you and I – can see the past and future, as greenseers. When my training was complete I was able to see the future of my House; do you know what I saw?” he asked Bran, raising a bushy brow. “I saw the degradation that was to come to Westeros; I saw Aerys the Mad and his obsession with fire and blood, I saw Rhaegar and his absurd desire to fulfill a “prophecy” that had no meaning; his desire tore the realm apart! I even saw Viserys and his cruelty before he even made it to these shores.”

Bran said nothing. “I saw Daenerys and her twisted sense of justice – a justice we see every day as the streets are rebuilt, do we not?”

“I don't care about this place.” the boy said angrily, “I care about Winterfell. I care about my friends, my family – Meera! I couldn't even say goodbye to her properly.”

Brynden felt the agony as though it was his own. “That is your past, Brandon. The future – our future – is one that will see the lands you love and care for rebuilt and restored, a lasting peace and prosperity that the realm desperately needs. Is that not a good thing?”

“A restoration -your- way.” Bran folded his arms, refusing to move his pieces. “Your power. Your kingdom – while you rob me of what matters – and still does matter.”

He shrugged. “The future is something we – both of us – need to move forward with. Even now the far North stirs – surely you have felt it as I have? The worshippers of the dead rise to strike their terrible revenge; while this is unexpected, even the cold ones and their actions strike a benefit.”

“What are you prattling on about now?”

“You have felt them as I have. The presence of the Others blocked them from our sight. But now, with their masters destroyed they are exposed to our sight.” Brynden tapped his hand on the table, “they seek revenge against the Hero of Winterfell – the one who destroyed their gods forever.”

Bran paled. “Arya.” he whispered, “she's beyond them. West – even I can't sense her any longer.”

“They are not interested in her so much as they are interested in her family.” he narrowed his eyes toward Bran.

“Sansa and Jon.” Bran felt sick – he held a hand up to his mouth. “And me.”

Brynden laughed. “They cannot threaten us – while fanatics even they are not stupid enough to believe their agents can reach this far south. But your sister, the Northern queen – yes, she will be one of her targets. As will Aegon Targaryen.”

“JON!” Bran rose to his feet, angrily throwing the chess-board off the table. “His name is Jon!”

_His power grows_, Bloodraven thought with a smile. “This benefits us in ways you know. Removing the last Targaryen will cement our ability to rebuild Westeros. As for your sister, the loss of their queen will convince the North that they must reunite with the Seven Kingdoms once more.”

“It's not enough for you to take my body and preach to me about my brother's death?” Bran looked irate, his face growing red with every passing moment. “Now you tell me that Sansa's death will benefit us – benefit you?!”

“Every death is a benefit for our goal, Brandon. You have seen what your sister is up to – her love of Aegon Targaryen. I have seen that any children of that union...it will only cause even more strife and chaos for a land littered with scars and wounds. So, yes, I am telling you thus.” Brynden shrugged.

Bran shook his head. “It is easy for you to say that when you have never loved, never known what it is to have those to care about.” he spat, venom in his voice.

“You think me so vile and evil that I have not felt those emotions?” Brynden felt himself growing angry, his power ebbing and flowing all around him. Bran staggered in pain, a bit of blood trickling from his nose. “My family – as wretched and debased as they were – I loved them. Daemon, Daeron, Aegor, all of them! I loved them as dearly as you loved your own family.”

“You...never loved them...you killed and murdered as you saw fit.” Bran whispered, grasping at his head.

“FOR THE GOOD OF THE REALM!” Brynden cursed, “I have done horrible things in the name of this land, Brandon! Horrible things that you know of – Aenys's death, the battles against the Blackfyres, all of it! And in that time I have learned, truly learned, that the cycle of death and destruction is the legacy of House Targaryen. And so, if we must destroy a man you once called 'brother' to achieve peace, so be it.”

“Get out of my head!” Bran cried, trying to force Brynden away. The effort from the boy was barely enough to make him waver, and he sent a blast of his own power that sent the boy to his knees. The _merest touch,_ he mused.

“I will leave when our task is complete, Brandon.” Brynden knelt down in front of him. “Not before.”

Rising slowly he helped get the boy to his feet. “Now, come. Dawn is upon us and another day begins.”

* * *

The sun shone into the King's Chamber as Brandon I Stark opened his eyes. A faint smile rested upon his lips as he pulled himself into a sitting position. _For the good of the realm,_ Bloodraven thought. _Not much longer now. _

“Good morning, Your Grace.” a servant girl entered the room, offering a curtsy. “What is your command?”

Brandon barely paid her any mind as he slid to the edge of the bed. “A bath, I think. I must speak with the Small Council as soon as possible. Please see that they are informed.”

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some fluff here!

Jon wrapped his arms around Sansa, taking in the scent of lemon radiating from her body. Her grey and black dress – the one she wore in her official duties as Queen – felt both rough and comforting against his own ragged overclothes.

In response she pulled him closer, her hands wrapping around his. A gentle sigh escaped her lips as she nuzzled her head back into the nape of his neck. Since their departure from Hardhome aboard the Northern flagship, they'd spent several nights like this – laying together, wrapped in each others arms.

For Jon it was a warm and welcome feeling to the ones of cold and darkness he was used to. It was almost enough to begin to break down the cold core of self guilt he still felt deep within his heart.

“You saved me.” he whispered, just audible enough for her to hear. It was the truth, and Jon knew it – as much as that sad pathetic remnant of his mind – the one who felt grief and remorse over the actions he'd taken in King's Landing – tried to deny it.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “No, we saved each other.”

“Since we returned home, all I have thought of is you, Sansa.” Jon felt the need to express the thoughts unsaid between them; ever since their reunion all the way at Castle Black he had felt something stirring within his soul – something not normal for a brother to feel about a sister.

Though of course, she was not his sister – one of the few upsides to the cursed bloodline he carried in his veins. “I thought if I poured my energy and strength into work, into preparing us for what was to come – it would make them stop. But it did not.”

Sansa rolled to face him, caressing his face softly.

“Even when I was in Dragonstone, in the...the company of her, your face – your words, your smile...it was all I could do to remain sane and whole in that foreign place.” The words took him back to the restless nights he spent on that island, with Sansa as his only company – in mind, at least.

Jon sighed, the boat gently swaying this way and that. “I know it might not seem like it, but everything I did was for you.” he said, one hand softly running through her hair. “I see that now – it only took so much pain for me to understand.”

“Oh, Jon.” she pressed a kiss to his lips. “I thought I lost you when you bowed to the Dragon Queen's whims. I thought that...that I would never see you again, that you would be bound to another ruler to serve and bend to.”

“I know.” he said sadly, that memory one of the more haunting. “but I had to make it sincere for the sake of you and the North. Cast me off, forget about me – so that we could have peace.”

Sansa rested her hands on his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his breath. “Never.”

“Now look at what we face...” Jon felt the worry creeping into his stomach once more. The 'cold ones' and the threat they posed may have seemed benign for a time, but the idea of a unified tribe of vengeful followers of the Others was a prospect he did not wish for.

“Forget them. Forget the demands of the Dragon Queen's followers.” she whispered, “tonight we have each other. Just like we have had since taking sail. We will face the threats at they come as we always have – as a pack.”

Jon felt his eyes watering. “I'm still...I still don't feel worthy of you. Of this...after all I have done.”

Sansa pressed a finger to his lips. “You are. Never forget that you absolutely are. You have fought and battled for most of our lives....for the greater good of our people. Of all people – it angers me that no one sees the good you have done, but I promise that I will not stop spreading the word of the real Jon Snow – no matter what.”

It was moments such as this that the companionship of the Free Folk could not replicate. The times he spent around the hearth with Sansa – those nights they would stay awake until the early hours talking of their triumphs and fears. _And the endless days I loved her from afar,_ he thought.

“When Bran finds out I have left the far North -” he began.

“...it does not matter what Bran may find out, or what Tyrion says. I am Queen of the North – not them. “ she replied firmly, “and I say that you are home where you belong – as an ambassador to the cause of Hardhome, even still.”

Sitting up on the edge of the bed Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. Sansa wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek comfortingly. “I just cannot get the images out of my head, Sansa.” he confessed with a sigh, “the slaughter in King's Landing, Drogon burning everything – gods, it's haunted me off and on since going north. And I was to blame. I had to lie and hurt my own family and lay with a woman I did not really love and for – for what?”

Sansa rested her chin on his shoulder. “That is the past, Jon. You did what you had to do – as I would have done.” she assured him, “I'm sorry I did not see that before. I just thought you were...acting pigheaded.”

“Aye, I suppose that is a good word for me.” he conceded with a laugh.

“Still, as I said – we've a chance now. A chance to start over and make things right – as we want them to be.” she smiled. “You fought for the North, for us – for home. People can say I freed the North but you did too.”

Jon nodded. “When I forced the dagger into her heart I saw your face. Arya's and Bran's. I – my mind was made up. Perhaps the world will hate and condemn me as a kinslayer but I would do it again, if it meant you would be safe.”

* * *

Sansa's hands began unbuttoning Jon's shirt; within a few moments his bare chest was exposed to the air. He sighed as she ran her fingers up from his abs to the top of his collarbone, the sensation sending jolts of energy to his brain.

“I can feel your heart beating.” she whispered as her hands rested. “The life inside you. The blood of House Stark and the Kings of Winter.” Sansa smiled, her face growing red. “Savior of the Free Folk, defender of the North – Jon Snow, the White Wolf.”

He felt heat growing in his face as she kissed his neck softly. Jon let out a low moan with every kiss and touch from her fingers. “Just Jon...” he whispered, letting out a slight gasp as she bit down on his neck gently.

Sansa giggled, the musical sound echoing through her cabin. Before he could react she had swung around and straddled his lap, her hands guiding his to rest upon the small of her back. He could feel the heat from her body against his own, even more powerfully then the last few nights they had spent together.

He was painfully hard, his cock pressing up against his breeches as she straddled him. “I am yours to command.” he said simply. It was the truth – _this is my Queen_, he told himself.

“Your Queen commands you to lay back down.” she whispered, gently pushing his chest.

Collapsing back onto the bed Jon watched as Sansa's dress pooled at her feet, her naked body taking its place on top of him once again. Pressing herself hard against him, their lips met in a frenzy of passion and lust.

_I love you,_ Jon thought as they continued to kiss. _Now and always. _

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in case anyone is confused by the ending of this chapter I have borrowed some mythology from the Crusader Kings 2 Game of Thrones mod where certain beings could disguise or glamour themselves as humans. 
> 
> if you can guess who the woman is well done, I am not very subtle lol

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace – but this is absurd nonsense.” Lord Ryswell scoffed, gesturing dismissively towards Jon and Tormund, “these tales of deranged wildlings that worship the dead – with the only proof being a ludicrous story provided by a Targaryen and a kinslayer to boot?”

Tormund rose to his feet, slamming his fist onto the table. “Well, Mister High and Mighty, if you won't hear it from Jon, then hear it from me!” he bellowed, “We saw it! The Queen was there, so was a half hundred others! The same symbol that we saw at the Fist of the First Men.”

“Ah yes, a wildling telling the same story. That makes it so much more believable.” Ryswell rolled his eyes.

Sansa gripped the armrests on her chair, fighting back the barely controlled anger she felt towards the man and his incessant disbelief. Unfortunately for her House Ryswell held a great deal of political and military power over the newly-free North, and she was forced to appoint the man to her council so as to maintain support.

“Tormund is correct, my lord – I did see the mentioned sigil in the snow.” Sansa looked to him, “and given the way the wildlings of Hardhome reacted to its appearance there, I can safely say that our ambassadors here are speaking the truth. We must be ready for an attack.”

Ser Edwyle, her able and patient castellan was next to speak. “I do not mean to cast doubt upon your story, my lords – but these worshippers...they must not possess weapons or armour that can put them at the same advantage to our own forces, correct?”

“You would be correct, my lord – but they have something even stronger – faith.” Jon said firmly, eyes glancing around the table. “They wish for revenge upon those who slew their gods, and since they cannot reach Arya or Bran, they will content themselves with myself and the Queen, along with the free folk who do not follow their faith.”

Lord Ryswell's scowl deepened. He held up a scroll in front of him. “Then why did you come back?” he asked, glaring towards Jon. “If the southern kingdom gets word of his return, it may well mean war – not just from them but from his aunt's insane followers. And now you bring the wrath of these so-called 'cold ones' upon Winterfell?”

He turned towards Sansa. “Your Grace, we've had ravens from White Harbour and Deepwood objecting to his presence here on that account. We are still rebuilding our armies from the last few wars in the south – if the Six Kingdoms decides to invade because of our...harbouring of a Taragryen -”

“We are _not _harbouring anyone, my lord!” Sansa's scowl matched the old man's own. “The Free Folk – Jon Snow included – are here as ambassadors from Hardhome. Further, I am Queen of a free North – we do not answer to King Brandon in the south, or have you forgotten that? And indeed, we would not _BE _a free kingdom if not for the same man you now revile.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I...we have just won our freedom after so much destruction. I do not wish to see it lost again.” Ryswell looked down at the table, his face reddening in embarrassment.

Sansa waved him off. “I understand your concern – but I can assure you that there will be no need for worry at their presence. As far as I am concerned – and I believe I speak for everyone else here – they are heroes of Winterfell.”

“Hear hear!” said Ser Manderly, offering a smile to the pair. “We benefit greatly from your expertise and advice, my lords.”

Ser Edwyle nodded. “It is always good to have a unique perspective on matters of state, especially ones concerning our friends in the far North.”

“Well we are happy to help fight off a threat to kneelers and free folk alike!” Tormund beamed.

Sansa turned to her master at arms. “Now, Ser Marc – how many men can we call upon for defence should the North be threatened?” Rebuilding the North's shattered military forces was one of the main focuses of her first year as monarch, and it was something that every house in the kingdom had contributed to – men, material, horses, and so on.

“At current count we sit at just over five thousand fighting men.” he answered, looking over a few sheets of parchment in front of him, “though by year's end we should be able to have that number at just over six. Equipment is no issue; King Robb made sure surplus arms and armour were provided to every major House before the southern campaign begun. It is a matter of training and able bodied men.”

As he continued to go into detail about the military capabilities of the North, Sansa kept her gaze on Jon – who said little and kept his head hung low as he seemed only to listen to the current debate. She wanted to reach out and assure him that he would be welcome here, that despite angry old men like Lord Roger, most of the North was happy to see him home.

She wanted to take him in her arms again, to tell him everything was alright – that he was not cursed or despised as he wrongly thought he should be.

But she was Queen – and such an action in public was not something she was prepared for, at least not yet while her reign was so young.

Jon had sacrificed a great deal for their home and their family – and for him to be cast aside by all those who fought with and knew him was as great an injustice as was done to her lord father when he tried to right the wrongs of the realm.

But she was stronger then she had been then, and she'd not been able to save her father – she would save Jon from living a life of misery and exile over something that had to be done.

The night they had spent together aboard the ship – and the ones after it – still made her blush. It was the first time since Ramsay she had trusted anyone enough with her body, and he had made her enjoy the sensations of sex and love if only for that brief time.

“...be enough to take the fight to them should they reveal themselves.” Jon concurred. “While we've no idea about their numbers, our strength of arms and weapons should be enough to turn them back.”

A knock at the door interrupted the meeting. “Pardon, Your Grace. Maester Wolkan is here.” came the voice of the guard.

“Send him in.” Sansa commanded.

Entering the room the Maester offered a bow. “Your Grace, I am glad to see you have returned safe. And may I welcome you back, my lords.” he nodded towards Jon and Tormund. “I beg a thousand pardons for intruding, but we've had a raven from Castle Black.”

That got the attention of everyone in the room. “What does it say?” Sansa asked.

“It is addressed to you personally, Your Grace. I have not opened it.” he said, handing her the scroll.

Unfurling the message Sansa read it aloud.

* * *

_To Queen Sansa of the House Stark, _

_I send the greetings of the Nights Watch to you, Your Grace. This message concerns the disturbing tidings told to us by the Free Folk in Hardhome. As a result of their message we have doubled patrols through our outpost at the remains of Craster's Keep. _

_I send this message due to events that occurred yesterday. A wildling woman surrendered herself at the gates of Castle Black, claiming herself to be a 'disciple of the gods of cold'. She carried with her certain talismans that match the description given to us of the sigils used by the Others. _

_We have confined her to a cell but she refuses to speak with any save for 'Aegon Targaryen'. The woman is insistent and refuses to say anything else. _

_Please deliver this news to him as soon as possible. I am aware that he is now serving as ambassador to Hardhome; the men here send their congratulations to him._

_The woman, on the other hand is...with respect, Your Grace, un-nerving. She sets the men on edge. _

_Kind Regards in the Light of the Seven, _

_Ser Denys Mallister_

_1000th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch _

* * *

Sansa put the scroll down, tapping her fingers on the table. “Ill tidings, this.”

Tormund looked to Jon and back to the council. “If that's true, we should head there at once.” he reasoned, “this woman might know something we can use!”

“It could be a trap.” Jon said, the frown on his face growing. “A ploy to split us up so as to send their agents after us one at a time.”

“Rest assured, my lord, the Queen is safe here. There are upwards of a hundred swords loyal to her here at Winterfell alone.” Ser Marc offered. “Several hundred more in the winter town and the surrounding townships.”

“It only takes one loyal to them to make that meaningless.” Jon countered.

“Leave your wolf with her.” Tormund offered. “That beast will rip the skin off any fucker who tries to touch her wrong.”

Both she and Jon smiled at that. Ghost was constantly by Jon's side, and since returning home it had proven no different. The wolf constantly followed his master around, even as his increasing growth made it hard for him to navigate the corridors of Winterfell.

“That is a good idea.” Jon finally said. “Ghost will protect you as he does me, Your Grace.”

Sansa fought to conceal her blush as he gazed in her direction. Why was she feeling like a young girl, swooning over her first knight again? Was this what love – true love – did to a woman? It was both awful and wonderful at the same time.

“It is settled, then. Our ambassadors will leave for Castle Black in the morning to find out more about this wildling.” she said, rising to her feet. “You are dismissed for now.”

As the assembled filed out of the room, she watched as Jon hesitated by the door. He looked back at her and she smiled, quickly going to him. Caressing his cheek she hugged him, wrapping her lithe hands around his back.

Jon kissed her forehead – like he'd done after they returned home, she recalled – and returned her smile. “Some welcome.” he whispered.

“Lord Roger is an old fool – but he is an influential old fool. He has the respect of House Flint, Dustin and Glover. For now – we need him on the council.” she explained, causing Jon to nod in understanding.

“You already want to send me away.” he teased, brushing his lips against hers. Sansa shivered in response, “just to be with your Lord Roger.”

Sansa snorted in disbelief and laughed. “You're awful.”

Jon grinned, taking two of his fingers and brushing them against her bottom lip. “If the servants see us it will be a scandal. The Queen of the North, caught in a compromising position with a Targaryen exile.”

“Fuck scandals.” she replied, pressing her lips into his.

* * *

The ice cell she was placed into was probably meant as a way to intimidate her by the brothers at Castle Black, but the woman felt nothing. The cold was in her blood, in her veins. Ice was to her what water was to men.

Still they had reacted quickly enough when told of who she was – and who she wished to see. Aegon Targaryen. The omens were strong; her priests had rolled the bones for days and days until confirming such a sign.

It had been some time since she had set eyes upon the great castles of the Wall. This one did not compare so mightily to the Nightfort, greatest and largest of those structures defending the far North from the threat of the cold gods. A threat that the black brothers had forgotten; it was a laughable reality to know, truly.

She smiled, fingers dancing along the wall nearest her makeshift seat. The ice crackled and hardened at her touch; she could feel the history behind it. Their movement had begun in earnest, now, and no amount of fighting by the watch or the northern queen could stop them.

Her eyes gazed down at the charm around her neck, the rune still as fresh as the day her beloved placed it there. She wondered what he would think of the state of this Nights Watch; one castle left standing and less then a thousand men all told.

A creaking at the door of the cell stirred her from those long forgotten memories.

“I have sent the raven to Winterfell.” the Lord Commander told her, his tone cold and brisk.

She nodded. “I will speak only to Aegon Targaryen.” The words flowed from her lips, the cold wafting from her mouth in the process. She watched with some satisfaction as the man shrunk back from the door.

“I do not know what gods you worship, but we will end you as we did them.” he threatened. _Empty words,_ she thought. The world of men was full of such wroth, and as such it did not truly bother her.

She turned to face him, her blue eyes dancing in the torchlight. “As you say.” she whispered, offering a shrug.

The man ran from the room, hurriedly locking the door behind him.

She returned to her seat, fingers now running across the rune necklace. _In the old tongue it means love_, she remembered his words and smiled.

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

“I don't want to leave you.” he whispered as Sansa rested on top of him, their ragged breathing and sweaty bodies wrapped tight under the blankets. “even if it is temporary.”

Sansa smiled, rolling off of him and settling in on the pillow to his right. “I know – but if this woman can somehow give us information on the cold ones, it is a worthy lead. I need you to live through this, you know.”

Jon laughed, kissing her once again. Sweat dripped down from her forehead, hair ragged and wild all across her shoulders. Their copious love-making had likely been noticed by the various sentries and servants in the castle, but at this moment – he could care less.

“You're still bothered about the council meeting.” she whispered, running a hand through his chest hair. “I promise that Lord Roger is in the minority here. He can complain about ravens objecting to your return all he likes – I've also had ravens from Castle Hornwood, Castle Mazin and Bear Island praising the decision.”

“I know.” he sighed, resting a hand on hers. “I just...feel like an outsider in this place again. But, somehow worse. I thought I could handle these feelings again, but – it hurts. They have every right to despise me, but -”

“They do not.” Sansa assured him, her hand resting on his scars. The wounds still were red and barely healed, even now – a consequence of the magic used to bring him back, or so she thought.

They did not bleed, but it was a reminder of all he'd sacrificed for the North. “I thought you stupid when you bent your knee – as you know. But I see now what choices you had to make...hard ones. Ones I have to make as a ruler.”

Jon brought her hand to his lips kissed it. “We should get some sleep.” he smiled, enjoying the closeness between them. The warmth from the hearth and from her body made him feel relaxed, a feeling he'd long missed.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I suppose so. I will need to quell the whispers from the servants and garrison in the morrow when you leave.” she grinned.

It had been a strange homecoming for him. Jon had returned to Winterfell expecting to be scorned and despised – and certainly men like Lord Ryswell had delivered that. But the majority of the men and women he passed or spoke with seemed to regard him with respect, offering him smiles and words of encouragement.

Still, even with that – it would not erase the guilt nagging into his soul. Even being here with Sansa, a woman he truly, deeply loved – no lies or need to play political games with – made Jon's foolish heart not still feel regret for what he had done.

_She had to die,_ he told himself. Daenerys would not stop until the world bowed to her deranged whims.

As he watched Sansa's eyes close, her breathing gentle and skin soft against his own, Jon forced himself to smile. This was where he belonged – at her side, no matter what was to come. This was the woman he wanted to spend his life with; even as damned and accursed a kinslayer he was.

Tomorrow he and Tormund would leave for Castle Black, but she would be safe. He looked down at the floor, where Ghost lay at the foot of the bed asleep. Ghost would watch over her and keep her safe, so if any of the followers of the cold gods tried to harm her, they would get a taste of his fangs.

His eyes began to grow heavy as he relaxed, Sansa's gentle breathing at his side. He gently ran a hand through her hair as his lids grew shut and sleep finally claimed him.

* * *

Whereas Jon expected his dreams to include that of Ghost – he found himself in a far different place now.

He watched from above as the cold northern sky moved overhead as a solitary figure stood overlooking a hill, a horde of screaming men rushing towards him. The figure slashed and hacked with his sword which glimmered in the daylight, biting deep into flesh and bone as each angry man fell at his feet.

Even from above he could see that the eyes of the attackers glowed red – which sent a sensation of heat and dread through his body both. They seethed with anger and rage, he knew, wanting to inflict as much pain and suffering upon their foe as they could.

Yet even as they died that rage did not fade.

From the sky an eye began to form. The eye was yellow and it glared upon him, personally. Not at the battle or at the scene around him, but at him – as though it knew that he was there. And it _hated. _

A loud and agonizing roar filled his ears as he realized – with terror – that the eye belonged to a dragon.

Drogon's face soon filled the sky as it exhaled – pure fire, headed right for him.

* * *

“Jon! Jon!” Sansa shook him as he woke up, the scream causing his throat to go raw.

Looking around frantically he saw that he was still in bed, coated in sweat and thrashing uncontrollably. The morning sun came through the windows and illuminated Sansa at his side, her eyes wide with fright and concern.

“The dream....gods, it was awful.” he whispered as he began to calm down, his heart no longer beating rapidly in his ears.

She kissed him on the cheek gently. “You were thrashing and screaming. I...I was worried. But you are safe, I can promise you that.”

He sat up, still shaking somewhat. “I saw it. Drogon.”

“It was only a dream.” she assured him.

“I know, but...it felt so real. The hate it had for me – it felt so real, Sansa.” he sighed, running his hands through his hair.

“You are safe in the walls of Winterfell.” she repeated, “you are home. Where you belong – with me.”

“With you.” Jon smiled at her, caressing her cheek softly. _This is real,_ he told himself.

A knock at the door interrupted his moment with her. Sansa pulled the covers off herself and quickly wrapped herself in a robe before opening the door to reveal a serving girl. She looked at Sansa and – briefly- Jon.

“Pardons, Your Grace – but did you need anything at this hour?” she asked.

Sansa nodded. “Some fresh sheets will be wonderful.”

Jon shrugged as the girl's gaze fell upon him. It would be known soon enough.

As the girl scurried away and Sansa shut the door, Jon started to laugh. “Something funny?”

“Instead of sneaking about we will need to worry about fighting off the sons of outraged lords when this reaches their ears.” he snickered, pulling his covers off.

“I told you yesterday. Fuck scandal.” Sansa whispered to him as she shed the robe, making her way to the bath. She turned her head as she reached the tub. “Are you coming? As Queen I require my ambassadors to be well groomed.” she winked.

* * *

Jon finished strapping the bag to the horse's saddle. Enough provisions to last him and Tormund until Castle Black. The ride should not be too treacherous, given that the snows were already receding and there was no worry of wights or Others to grip them.

He doubted bandits would try to attack a group carrying the Queen's own banner. At Sansa's insistence a small group of guards was to accompany them, so as to ensure no wild beasts or men tried to waylay them even still.

“Val will speak for me an' the King Crow while we're gone.” Tormund was saying to Sansa. “She's smart an' knows all about the southern ways. You won't find a better replacement!”

The spearwife rolled her eyes as she finished packing Tormund's horse. “The rest of our people will stay here an' watch over ya, just as the wolf will.”

Sansa smiled. “I appreciate your efforts, Tormund. Commander Snow will work with them on protection – not just of me, but of Winterfell as a whole. My safety is second to that of my people, of course.”

“Ah, your safety is important to our king crow!” he bellowed, gesturing towards him. “Jon! Get over here an' say goodbye to your woman already!”

Both of them blushed as he made his way over to where she stood. “We will not be long, Your Grace.” Jon said softly, a hand gently brushing hers. “Once the woman is questioned and tells me what she knows, we will return and begin proper planning.”

“I order you to stay safe.” she said with a smile. “Come back to me....to us.”

Jon nodded, taking her hand and placing it to his lips. Around them, he saw some of the servants and workers whispering to themselves excitedly. Let them talk, he thought. She loved him – and he loved her.

It would cause scandal, but neither of them seemed to care.

“Come on!” Tormund clapped him on the back. “The sooner we leave the sooner we can return!”

“Stay safe on the roads.” Sansa whispered as Jon brushed the tips of his fingers against her cheek. She wanted to cry out, to fall into his arms like a young swooning maiden – though that would be both stupid of her and foolish for them.

She watched as the two mounted their horses and, followed swiftly by their guards, left the castle and galloped away.

_He will return, _she told herself as she commanded the gate shut. _Jon is Jon. I trust him. I love him. _

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

Bran watched from below as the city of King's Landing was rebuilt. Day and night the sounds of repairs could be heard; it was a necessity given the scope of the damage. Even now, a year after Drogon's destructive attack, the city still looked half-ruined.

_It will be made whole again_, Bloodraven thought.

“We are in agreement, Your Grace.” said Lord Yohn Royce, the newly appointed Master of Laws. He stood behind the king, arms folded behind his back respectfully. “As I have consistently told those of the North, a Targaryen cannot be trusted.”

“Indeed.” Bran nodded. The Lord of Runestone was well known for his hatred of the dragon, and he would make a valuable addition to his small council as the plans for the end of that House moved ever forward.

At Royce's side stood Lysenno, the realm's new Master of Whisperers. Dressed in a fine array of green silk, he kept his shaven and blank gaze on Bran. “My informants report dissatisfaction among some of the lords of the North.” he said, his thick Lorathi accent unmistakable. “it is highly likely that they will be agreeable to our proposal.”

“Even still, we must persuade the rest of the council.” Royce countered.

With the arrest of Lord Bronn – who was embezzling vast sums of dragons and extorting the newly built brothels along the Street of Sighs – the obstacles that stood before Bloodraven would be Lords Davos and Tyrion.

“My Hand is a practical man. He understands the consequences of allowing Targaryens to run rampant in the world.” he said simply.

“And the Onion Knight?” Lysenno raised a brow. “His loyalty to the last Targaryen was well known.”

He would be a problem. Lord Davos was a capable man and an excellent Master of Ships, but his loyalty and friendship with Aegon Targaryen was a hindrance to further advancement. Bloodraven doubted that the man would be able to accept his plan, even though he served on his council.

“We shall see what his reaction is. If he will not accept the necessity behind our actions he will need to be removed.” Bloodraven decreed. From inside he felt the mind of young Brandon raging in protest as he tried desperately to reassert control. His efforts were noble, but futile.

_I have had centuries to master my skills, my young friend. _

Royce shook his head. “I said all along that the cursed blood of House Targaryen would only result in chaos and madness for the realm. Yet no one seemed ready to listen to me! I thought Jon Snow to be a reasonable man – but knowing he is part of that bloodline makes me understand his stupidity.”

“We will need to reach out to the dissenting lords of the North.” Bran said. “Secure their support for this – and help them understand that our goal is not to conquer their kingdom but save it from the madness of a diseased bloodline.”

Of course, Bloodraven had every intention of reintegrating the North back into the Seven Kingdoms – though that would take further time and effort. The northern lords revered Queen Sansa, and even their dislike for the Targaryen she now took to her bed would not persuade them to take up arms against her.

The coming crisis of the cold ones was a perfect chance, however.

Bloodraven sensed _her_ even now, within her cell at Castle Black. The unmistakable aura of one of them – even though they were destroyed. It had taken his scrying some time to find out why and how she was still among the living.

And she knew of him, as well. He felt her piercing eyes upon him every time he spoke with Bran at night. She watched them both with every moment, hanging over their conversations like an unwelcome winter storm.

She was nothing like the Night King – he was a creature of his creators, driven to destroy and rend the realms of men. She had thoughts, feelings, emotions; a twisted hybrid of Other and man. A threat to the safety of the kingdoms, to be sure – but at the moment, it was simpler to allow her and her deranged followers to proceed.

“Then it is agreed. Lysenno, send word to our agents in the North. Set the wheels in motion.” he commanded.

The Lorathi bowed and left the room swiftly, leaving Bran alone with Lord Royce.

“Is it wise to trust the Lorathi, Your Grace? He...he seems far too confident and haughty to display any true loyalty.” Royce asked, shaking his head as the man left.

Lysenno was a seasoned spymaster, Bran knew.

For over a decade he had served as the master of a spy network that held agents in all of the Free Cities and Slaver's Bay alike. Despite the dislike of him that many of the council expressed, he was good at what he did. “He is an expert at his craft, my lord. That is reason enough.”

“As you say, Your Grace. If I may be bold enough to ask – what will you do with Jon Snow?” Royce said cautiously.

Bran turned his head to face the man. “Despite what he is, he was...is important to me. He deserves a quick and painless end.” he stated flatly – the lie was necessary, else suspicions be raised about Bran's state of mind.

While it was true that Jon Snow meant a great deal to Bran – as he told him every night with his pleadings to spare his life – to Bloodraven he was the greatest threat that Westeros faced if it wanted to heal.

“Summon the rest of the council.” he commanded. “We must make clear our plans.”

* * *

“Forgive me if I am not understanding this right, Your Grace – but we are going to invade the North to kill a man who, quite frankly does not deserve to be killed?” Lord Davos asked, his voice raising in alarm.

“We are not invading the North, Lord Davos.” Lysenno said quickly, “we are arranging a visit between brother and sister monarchs to solve the problem of Aegon Targaryen.”

The Master of Ships shook his head. “What problem is there to solve?” he asked, rounding on the Lorathi. “House Targaryen is dead. Daenerys is gone, and so is her dragon. It's across the sea as His Grace can attest to.”

“So long as he lives, there will be those who wish to push his claim on the throne.” Lysenno shrugged. “It is the most logical decision to make if we wish to save the Six Kingdoms from endless chaos. Not to mention the problems of such a...tainted bloodline.”

“I cannot understand. Jon – not Aegon, but Jon – is a good man. A man who made the most difficult and damning decision of his life; a decision that allows us to sit in this room and condemn him.” Davos pleaded, “he is no Targaryen. He has lived his life as a Stark and continues to live his life that way. There is no need for any of this.”

He turned to Tyrion, who had been silent the whole time. “Surely you cannot agree with this?”

The dwarf's frown deepened. “It is an ill thing, but...His Grace has a point. So long as there is another claimant to the throne, our position is at risk. I have nothing but respect for Jon, but – there will always be those who will seek to use him to advance themselves.”

“This warrants his death?!” Davos's face grew red. “High Septon?”

“All deaths are a tragedy in the eyes of the Seven,” the man began, stroking his grey beard, “but the bloodline of House Targaryen contains so much abomination that perhaps its destruction is a kindness for the realm.”

Bran looked to Davos. “I understand your reluctance, Lord Davos. Yet if we do not do this the realm shall remain divided and unable to heal. I find myself struggling with such a terrible choice but know we must ensure that we allow the people of the realm to prosper.”

“Jon wasn't born of incest,” Davos rose to his feet, looking this way and that. “and he's shown no signs of madness. It...it was bad enough that we had to exile him for saving all of our bloody lives, but now this?”

“The King has spoken, Ser.” Lord Royce growled. “The decision has been made, and he must die.”

Davos pulled off his gloves and slammed them on the table. “I cannot be a part of the murder of a good man, a friend – for something as petty as this. I hereby resign as Master of Ships.”

“Thank you for your service, Lord Davos.” Bran said, his voice flat and emotionless. “Now we must select a new Master of Ships as well as of Coin.”

Leaving the room he pushed his way past the Kingsguard at the door, face still red with anger. The chamber remained silent for a moment.

“Ser Myles, Ser Oswell.” Bran called out and two of the white cloaks appeared at his side. “Please detain Lord Davos and confine him to his apartments. Do him no harm but do not allow him to leave without escort.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” the pair bowed and departed down the hall.

Lord Royce turned to Tyrion. “Lysenno has sent word to certain dissatisfied Northern lords who do not welcome the Targaryen's return to Winterfell. When the King travels north he shall meet with them to bolster our forces.”

“Smart – though we must convince them that we do not seek an invasion.” Tyrion offered. “Sansa will likely not stand for anyone harming Jon.”

“Our visit will not be one of invasion.” Bran said firmly, “but when I arrive at Winterfell with several northern houses supporting me, she will see reason and have to surrender him for both the good of the North as well as our kingdom.”

_The good of the realm,_ Bloodraven thought as he felt another of Bran's feeble attempts to take control of his body. He could feel the boy's grief and despair – if he were a weaker man, it may have affected him. But he long ago purged such weaknesses from his mind.

“We depart for White Harbour in one week.” Bran decreed.

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone confused let's just say she was able to disappear from the cell following her conversation with Jon, eldrich magics and all that :D

“As you can see, my lords – we have been able to complete most of the repairs to Castle Black thanks in part to the generous funds the Queen has sent us.” Lord Commander Denys Mallister offered the men a smile, gesturing around to the courtyard.

The castle looked almost the same, Jon mused – it had been what felt like a lifetime since he and Sansa had departed its gates, off to build alliances in order to retake Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton. 

Still, he could see the differences – many of the buildings had fresh planks of wood while the courtyard consisted of larger and stronger training dummies and archery targets. Black brothers milled about everywhere, many of them stopping to gawk and gape at Jon and Tormund.

The gate leading beyond the Wall was now open until nightfall, allowing Free Folk and black brothers to go as they saw fit. “The trade must be going well, eh?” Tormund asked, gesturing to the sleds nearest the stable.

“Indeed.” Mallister was an old and withered man, whose wrinkles made his face appear eternally frowning. Yet he offered another smile and it was an easy gesture. “We trade food and other perishables to the free folk in exchange for skins and furs; valuable here on the Wall.”

“Never thought we would be friends with the crows, but here we are.” Tormund beamed, slapping the man's back.

Jon snorted, gesturing up at the Wall itself as it loomed overhead, seven hundred feet high. Unfortunately, he and Tormund were not there for simple catching up with the new Watch. They had to see about this woman, this being – the one who asked for Jon by his birth name.

“Tell me about this woman, Lord Commander.” Jon asked, keeping his voice low.

Ser Denys frowned, his face growing slightly pale. “She is unnerving. It is...it is all we can do to keep her confined to the cell. She does not resist nor try to escape, but her presence alone is enough to have many seasoned brothers cowering.”

Jon could feel it, even from the safety of the courtyard. It was faint, but there; the sensation was as though he were walking through a cavern full of ice, the frozen walls and ceiling brushing against his face.

“How she knows your birth name is another mystery, my lord.” he added, “and her eyes. By the Seven...it is though I am looking into the heart of winter itself when I am forced to speak with her.” The old man shuddered.

“Has there been any sightings elsewhere?” Jon kept glancing up at the Wall, as though drawn to it.

Ser Denys shook his head. “Our post at the ruins of Craster's Keep has been sending out patrols daily – both black brother and free folk alike. None have found anything as far as a week's ride beyond the keep.”

“Ya won't.” Tormund shrugged, following Jon's gaze up the Wall. “The cold ones don't want to be found – they just show up, leave their symbols around and slink back into the Frostfangs. At least, they did.”

Jon started walking again towards the winch. “Let's get this over with.” He longed to leave this place; the feeling her presence gave made him feel ill.

The oppressive feeling only grew worse as the trio stepped into the passageways of the Wall itself, where most of their stores were kept. Jon felt a tightening in his chest as the air began to hurt his breath with every step.

He noted that the halls were empty, the sounds of shallow breathing from the Lord Commander and Tormund the only companions in the eerie silence.

“Burley.” Ser Denys said as they rounded a corner, coming to a door guarded by a large ranger. The man was shivering uncontrollably even while wrapped in what seemed to be a pile of furs, his lips already turning blue.

Both he and Tormund went over to the man, helping him shakily to his feet. “S...so cold...” he whispered, his portly face crackling with every word.

“Get him out of here.” Jon suggested, keeping his gaze on the door. “I will speak with her alone – she wants me, after all.”

Tormund scoffed. “You insane? We go in together!”

“Tormund.” Jon insisted, his voice growing hard even as his teeth began to chatter.

“We told your wolf queen you would come back, alive.” the wildling grumbled, “and I mean to keep that promise. Poor girl's been hurt by too many fuckers before, ain't she?”

Jon would not be one of them. “You know I swore to her I would return. I plan to keep that promise. Now, go. Please, Tormund.”

His friend tossed him an angry look, but made for the hallway with Ser Denys and the shivering Burley.

Alone at the door, Jon felt the intense cold radiating around him. The room beyond would be where he would find this woman, this harbinger of dead gods._ Whoever she is, her followers want to hurt my family. I will not allow it. _

Teeth chattering as he moved forward Jon opened the door into the cell.

* * *

The cold immediately stopped as he entered the small room. A sense of relief washed over him, his body starting to warm itself almost at once. His gaze fell to the far wall, where he saw a figure sitting on a small stool facing away from the door.

“I have come as you asked.” he said gruffly, stepping forward.

Slowly, the figure rose to its feet, the cracking of ice echoing around them as it did so. Jon felt his heart start to race as the woman turned to face him, revealing herself.

She was of average build and height, with shoulder-length black hair that appeared to be almost brittle and frozen. Her skin was pale with barely a hint of any complexion, and it seemed to glisten in the air around them.

What unnerved Jon the most was her eyes – they were piercingly blue, so much so that it brought back unpleasant memories of his battle against the dead and their master. Whomever this woman was, she clearly had not been any sort of wildling tribes person he had ever seen.

“Aegon Targaryen – I am glad you have heeded me.” Her voice, too, crackled as ice although not as intensely as her body's movements.

A palpable sense of dread had washed over him; how did this woman know who he was? Jon had told none of the Free Folk, save for Val and Tormund of the truth behind his parentage or identity; the pair had sworn not to tell anyone despite them swearing that it would not matter.

“My name is Jon Snow.” he growled. “What do you want?”

She took a step forward and smiled. “To help you face a dangerous foe.”

“The only dangerous foe here is you and your people,” Jon spat. He was not about to play games with those who worshipped the Others. “your cold gods are dead, yet you insist on starting this...this crusade against my family.”

Her smile remained unflinching as she stepped forward. Despite the ice crackling around him Jon did not feel the cold; how was she doing this? “Justice is a concept that concerns men, Aegon. You should know this.” she whispered. “and it is justice that brings me to stand before you today.”

“If you want justice, call off your people. Tell them that any action taken against Hardhome or Winterfell will be an act of war – and both the Starks and Free Folk will respond in kind.” Jon felt his teeth clenching the more he looked at her.

The woman stopped a few paces in front of him. “Our people seek to avenge the gods. That is a just cause, even you must agree, Aegon.” she observed, “but I am not here for them. I am here to ensure you – and the one you take to your bed – are able to survive this coming threat.”

Before he could react Jon had Longclaw at the woman's throat. “If you threaten Sansa again -”

“I do not threaten.” she replied, her face remaining emotionless. “I merely seek to enlighten you.”

His hand shook as anger coursed through him. No matter how much he wanted to take this woman's head off here and now, his body held him back. “I say again – what do you want? No riddles or games.”

She shrugged. “The raven king plots your death.”

It was enough to make Jon laugh. “That's absurd.” he snickered. “Bran is my -”

“The boy you know as Brandon does not control that mind. He does.” she insisted. “Tell me, Aegon – what do you know of greensight?”

The term referred to a powerful skin-changer, able to enter the mind of other men. Bran was one, Jon knew – he had discussed it somewhat during his time at Winterfell. The power seemed to extend to all the Starks – at least, a weaker version of skin-changing. Jon found himself in his wolf dreams living through Ghost – but Bran was able to live through him, see through his eyes should he wish.

“I know of the concept.”

She nodded. “When my brothers destroyed the body of the three-eyed crow, he cast his mind into the first powerful student he possessed – Brandon. In that way, his plans and ambitions live on – and he gains a young body and mind to manipulate.”

“Your brothers?” Jon shook his head. “I was told that the Others killed Bran's teacher.” He, Arya and Sansa had discussed it from what Bran and Meera Reed, his companion had mentioned – she had told Sansa of the events there before departing the castle before his return.

Her smile twinkled.

A sickening fright – something he'd felt only a scant handful of times in his life – washed over him. The fright was primal and intense; a need to run, to flee from this woman – this thing – that now stood before him.

“W...what are you?” he choked out. “The...the Others are gone.”

She laid a hand on his chest. “You know the tale of the Night's King.”

“The thirteenth Lord Commander.” Jon stammered. It was a tale all of the Watch knew; he had been seduced by a woman beyond the Wall, with eyes as blue as the sky. He and his unholy bride had reigned in terror before being overthrown.

She used her free hand to finger a pendant around her neck. “My beloved. Also named Brandon.”

“Arya...she killed the Night King...”

“When my beloved gave me his gifts, I became more then my brothers. Thus when they were destroyed – and their thralls with them – I persisted. I am more then what my creators wished for me to be; more then a mere weapon.” she replied, her hand now caressing his chest.

He tried to stop her, to pull her away from him but he found his muscles unable to move.

“but enough about me.” she paused, gazing into his eyes. “Bloodraven – the one who holds your brother's mind and body – wishes to see the destruction of the house of the dragon, Aegon. You are the blood of that house.”

“M...my name is Jon Snow...” he choked out.

“The crow does not see that. He sees your blood and nothing more; the child quickening in your lover's body carries the same blood of the dragon – and he will demand its death as well.” she added almost as an afterthought.

Were he able to react or scream or laugh he would. _Sansa...with child? My child?_ “Y...you're lying..” he tried to insist.

“I carry the same sight as he – another gift from my creators. I have watched him scheme and plot and watched as your brother fights feebly against him and his significant power.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jon croaked out. _Sansa – with child. My child..._

“Because your purpose is not to die at the hands of the raven king for his mad desires. Yet even if you decide – as you are wont to do – to sacrifice your life, he will not stop with you.” she tilted her head, “as I have said, Aegon – the child growing within your queen's body will need to be destroyed, also.”

His mind wracked with disbelief and dread, happiness and sorrow. Was this woman...this thing...telling the truth? It was such an elaborate story that it seemed almost impossible to be something concocted by the cold ones.

“Your doubts are understandable.” she noted, “allow me to show you what I have seen.”

She pressed her hand to his cheek, and Jon screamed.

* * *

Jon thundered out of the room so fast that Tormund had to run to keep up with him.

“What happened? We got the crow down to the castle an' I insisted on coming back. Well?” he asked with concern.

Reaching the winch down they stepped inside, Jon's breathing now ragged and hard.

“Talk to me!” Tormund shouted, “You alright?”

He turned to look at his friend and it was then that he saw how pale the crow king was. Like he had seen a ghost or a wraith or something out of the stories. “We need to get back to Winterfell now.” he said, voice shaking.

As they reached the ground Tormund grasped the back of Jon's overcoat and stopped him from moving. “Hey, listen, baby crow! Whatever is going on, we'll beat it together – you know that. These cold fuckers can try whatever they want, but with Tormund and Jon – and all the other southerners, too – they'll be cryin' to their sorry dead gods in no time.”

“It's more then that, Tormund. Much more. Saddle your horse – I will explain on the way.”

The fear in Jon's eyes was all he needed to see; Tormund rushed to prepare for the trip back. Around them, shouts of alarm rang up as the brothers took note of a missing prisoner – though the pair were too focused to pay much attention.

_Sansa, Jon thought. I am coming back, my love. I promise. I promise. _

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay. was kind of on writers block on this one!

“And as you can see, Your Grace, with the completion of the new granaries at Castle Cerwyn, the harvest that can be stored there has been increased by one quarter.” Ser Edwyle said, gesturing to his ledger.

Sansa nodded, looking out over the battlements to the courtyard below. “Inform Lord Cerwyn that he will be well compensated for the new granaries.” she stated, resting a hand on the railing. “More then ever we must rebuild our stores and quickly.”

Her castellan bowed and scribbled down something on the parchment. “With that, Your Grace, all of the latest news has been given.” he smiled, wrinkles more pronounced as he did so. “I shall continue to keep you abreast of our growing sums and debts, as you ordered.”

She smiled at the man. “Thank you, Ser Edwyle. Go with my blessing.”

As he hurried off Sansa sighed, watching as a group of guardsmen drilled below with Ser Marc. The cool air of the mid day jostled her hair slightly, but it felt good to have a breeze that was not bitterly cold.

“I don't know how you do it, truth be told.” Val grunted from beside her. The blonde wildling rested her back on the railing, arms folded in front of her. “All of this rubbish about 'sums' and ruling. It's as though you're responsible for a thousand screaming babes who all want you to suckle them.”

The comparison made Sansa snort with laughter. “I suppose this is strange for you, Val – but every thing has a purpose including the way that Winterfell is run. Just as things were strange for me up in Hardhome.”

Val leaned down to pet Ghost as the wolf nudged her affectionately. “I just don't understand, is all. So many kneelers wanting your attention for this and that; it's enough to drive a free woman mad with anger.”

“You are skilled with a spear and a blade.” Sansa pointed out with a smile, “while I am skilled with commanding and ruling. We both have our strengths, well suited for the climates we find ourselves in.”

She nodded. “No wonder Jon loves you. You've a keen mind, Your Grace.” Val winked.

Jon would be returning soon, Sansa told herself. It had been several days since their departure, and she knew that the trip to Castle Black would take some time. Still, she missed him with every passing day – even as she buried herself in work, it still only made his absence feel all the more raw.

Val stepped closer to Sansa, looking around to ensure the two women were alone. “Are you going to tell him when he returns?” she whispered, looking to her stomach.

A blush crept up her cheeks. How did she know? “I...” she tried to lie but Val only grinned at her.

“We don't have any grey-robed maesters in Hardhome, but we've plenty of our own healers and sooth-sayers among the Free Folk. Woman visits her healer looking as nervous as you did, and it's only a matter of time before we know she's with child.” The wildling smiled at her, not one of mockery or jape but one of sincerity. “We women folk know.”

Sansa was not sure when she conceived. It must have been within the last two months since her return with Jon. Still, after she missed her moon-blood last week it was a worry enough for her to visit Maester Wolkan.

As a necessity, given her position as Queen she had ordered him to remain silent and not speak a word of it to any one save her. Sansa knew he would obey; the man was dutiful and kind, and was not the kind of man to violate his ruler's trust.

“Of course I will.” she whispered, putting a hand to her stomach. She had no noticeable belly yet, the babe still in its earliest stages, but since having the news confirmed she had been feeling a strong maternal sense about her.

Fear and excitement coursed through her body. She was going to be a mother; something she had wanted for so long. “though, after Ramsay and his...games, I was unsure if I could have a child.”

Val rubbed her back gently. “You'll be a strong mother as you're a strong Queen. I've no doubt about that.”

She wondered how Jon would react to the news. They had not discussed children, of course given the position that he had as an exile and an ambassador, but she had wanted to broach the subject with him upon their return. There was no other man she could think of having a child with –_ Jon will be a wonderful father_, she knew.

“I wonder how Jon will feel.” she added, “he and I have not discussed this.”

Val snorted. “If there is one thing that the king crow loves more then brooding, it's you. I know he'll be thrilled. He's a good man, though – I know that any babe you have will be blessed with two wonderful parents. One a queen, another a bird!”

Of course, her child would be a bastard given that Jon was not her husband – though Sansa could easily legitimize him or her and proclaim their son or daughter her rightful heir without incident. “Thank you, Val.” she smiled.

A shout of alarm took the attention of both women as Commander Snow rushed up to the battlements, a frantic look on his face. “Your Grace, come quickly.” he panted, wiping at his forehead, “down by the armoury, there's another symbol.”

* * *

The spiral was drawn in white and contrasted with the worn stone of the castle wall, Sansa noted. “When was this found?” she asked aloud.

“Not five minutes ago, Your Grace.” said one of her guards, “one o' the cooks found it while goin' to feed the pigs.”

She ran a hand against the symbol, a faint line of white coming off on her fingers. “It is still fresh. Commander, send some of your men to search the nearby storage areas.” she commanded. “If we move quickly we may be able to trace the one responsible.”

Val shook her head, leaning on her spear. “They're getting even bolder.” she observed, “that's not a good sign for us – or you.”

“Let them be as bold as they wish.” Sansa said firmly. “I am not afraid of these mad men or their deranged belief in their dead gods.” She had both a kingdom and a child to protect, now – no one would be able to force her to cower before them ever again. Not after what she had endured.

Frightened murmurs came from those gathered around – guards and servants alike. “Good people,” Sansa turned to face them, offering a calm smile. “I can promise you that we will be able to find those responsible and bring them to justice. No followers of the cold gods will be able to endure here in the North, I swear it by the Old Gods.”

“You heard the Queen, back to your duties.” barked Commander Snow, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Are you troubled, Commander?” Sansa asked him, noting the tension on his face.

“Something feels...ill at ease, Your Grace.” he said, continuing to gaze around the courtyard. “I feel as though we are being watched. Call it a suspicion, but...it just feels wrong. Why this moment, why now? It was as though they knew you would be away from the main hall.”

Sansa nodded, opening her mouth to reply. Just as she did, a shout went up from the crowd.

Some of her guards moved forward, drawing their weapons. Commander Snow's eyes went wide and he barked out, “Protect the Queen!”

It was then she saw one of her attackers. It was a man dressed in a guard's outfit, though in place of a helmet he wore a mask made of wood in the shape of a scowl. He forced his way through the crowd and rushed towards her.

Before he could reach her Val was upon him, driving the butt of her spear into his face. He crumpled to the ground with a grunt and she ran the point through his throat, silencing him for good.

“To your right!” she shouted.

Another mask-wearing attacker, this one dressed in servant's garb, charged from one of the store rooms towards her. This one was not long in his attempt either; a great white blur intercepted him before he reached the half-way mark, mauling him as the man screamed in agony.

Sansa put a hand over her stomach protectively. She felt her breath growing hot and rapid as the world seemed to slow, the guards and servants around her moving at an extremely slow rate. Blood rushed in her ears as her heart thrashed violently.

“Your Grace!” Commander Snow's voice finally registered. The man was stained with blood as he stood before her, face pale. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking her head, she tried to respond but Val cut her off. “She's fine, Ser Kneeler – no thanks to you.”

“There were four others over by the battlements!” he protested, “We were fighting those ones.”

Ghost nuzzled at her hand softly, his maw stained with the blood of his victim.

“I did not expect them to attack in force this soon.” the man admitted as the rest of his men fell back into position around her. “I – I apologize for my failure, Your Grace.”

Sansa shook her head, her mind starting to come back down. “No apologies needed, Commander. Perhaps we all need be more vigilant. None the less, I am unhurt.” she assured him with a smile.

“Ser!” one of the guards exclaimed from Sansa's right.

“What is it, Jed?” Commander Snow went over to the guard and she heard him audibly gasp.

Concerned, she went to where the two stood, over the body of the guard who'd attacked her. “Ill tidings if they are able to get a man inside Winterfell's guard.” she observed.

“Beg pardons, Your Grace – but I know the name and face of every man on your personal guard, and I do not recognize this one.” the commander lifted up the mask, revealing the dead face of a man she did not know.

He turned quickly to Jed. “Find out who was not scheduled for duty. Get to the barracks, if anyone is missing I want to know who!” he barked.

As the man scurried off, Snow turned back to her. “The others were dressed in servant's garb. I would wager that if we were to question the rest of the castle, they would say that they were new arrivals from the winter town.” he observed, “but this man – I would assume he slew one of my men and took his place.”

“How could it go unnoticed?” Sansa asked.

“I do not know, Your Grace. Perhaps he arrived as a servant and did not strike until today.” The Commander wore a troubled expression.

Val tapped at the body with her spear. “They're trying to make sure we don't trust each other.” she pointed out. “Enemies 'round every corner, and all that.”

“The masks.” Sansa knelt down and picked it up, running her hands along the smooth wood. “They are weirwood.” she noted, the texture familiar in her hands.

* * *

Another bellowing shout came from the north, toward the godswood. The guards turned towards the noise only to see a half-dozen Free Folk stomping their way through the courtyard, lead by a man with long blonde hair.

“Looks like a good scrap!” he exclaimed, offering a respectful nod of his head towards Sansa.

“Glad you could make it, Ryck.” Val said dryly. “Missed all the fun.”

“Not all!” he beamed as two of his men threw down a mask-wearing servant. The man hit the ground with a grunt as he struggled to his knees. “Found this fucker as we were goin' to the winter town. Watched him draw a dagger an start running here. We managed to clobber 'im and bring him here.”

“Good work, Ryck.” Sansa smiled, looking down at the man. “Take him to the dungeons.” she gestured to Commander Snow.

As the man was hauled away he shouted aloud. “You cannot stop what is to come! We will have revenge for our gods!” He continued to struggle against his captors in futility.

Sansa turned back to Val and Commander Snow. “I think today has had enough excitement for now.” she remarked, drawing a laugh from the spear-wife and a nod from the commander.

“I will have patrols around the castle doubled, Your Grace. We will search every room for any more sign of cultist equipment.” Snow said firmly, gesturing to the guards around her. “I will call up more men from the winter town to see this done.”

Nodding, Sansa watched as a group of servants went to work on the symbol with water buckets. As the group worked, she placed a hand over her stomach once more and smiled. Despite the attempt on her life she felt no fear; not truly, in this moment. The horrors that she had endured paled in comparison to a mad cult and their infiltrators.

_We will survive this,_ she thought with confidence. More then survive – the Starks would thrive. She had Jon back in her life, after an absence she despised as unjust and wrong after all he had done. _And I'm carrying Jon's child_. She wondered how he would take the news; though Jon was Jon; he would love and support her no matter what – and that set her mind at ease.

_Hurry home,_ she looked to the sky.

* * *


	19. Chapter 19

The field was calm with a gentle spring breeze rustling the grass. Bran took a few steps forward, watching the group of men as they came to a halt atop their horses. Their standard – the three headed dragon of House Targaryen – waved gently in the wind.

_King Daeron the Good_, Bran knew from the young man wearing a crown at the head of the party. He was known as the monarch who had brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms peacefully and without further bloodshed, a far cry from the attempts made by his father Aegon the Unworthy.

A second group of horsemen approached from across the field, their standard a black dragon on a field of red. The leader of this group was a handsome man with Valyrian features – blonde hair and purple eyes, with the same unearthly visage that was common in those with Freehold ancestry.

Getting into Bloodraven's memories was not difficult, and Bran hoped he would find a way to expel him from his own body eventually if he looked hard enough. He spotted the past form of his captor atop a horse next to Daeron, his pale skin and sickly appearance hard to miss.

“Revisiting my old memories now, hmm?”

Looking behind him Bran shrugged. “You get to delve into my mind, to see my past and my present. Why can I not do the same to you?” he retorted, watching as the Blackfyre party came to a halt.

“Daemon.” said King Daeron, inclining his head.

An easy smile played on the Blackfyre pretender's face. “Daeron. So it comes down to this, then? Two brothers, battling for the right to carry on our father's legacy.” he observed, eyes darting to the royal army.

King Daeron sighed. “Our father is dead. I am his only true-born heir, thus the Throne is mine by right. You know this. Yet, have I not been kind to you? To all of our father's children? Did I not give you lands and pay the dowry promised for your wife?”

Daemon shrugged. “You did, and Rohanne and I will be ever grateful. But the truth is, dear brother, that our father wanted a different heir.” he fingered the hilt of his sword – Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror.

“A sword does not make you king, Daemon.” Daeron shook his head. “End this. There is no need for more bloodshed. Lay down your arms – all of you – and I will be merciful. I will forgive your treason and work to heal the wounds inflicted on Westeros.”

Daemon's smile seemed sad, Bran noted. “We have come too far to abandon my claim now, Daeron. We shall have to settle this on the field of battle.”

Bloodraven chuckled from beside him. “Always the confident one, Daemon.”

“Arrogant, you mean.” Bran replied. “I can feel it wafting off him like a strong perfume.”

“This is folly, Daemon.” said the younger Bloodraven, his pale skin shimmering in the light. “If you do not surrender then you and your armies will fall – you know we have the numbers. Do not sacrifice any more men for a failed cause.”

A gruff and angry looking man from beside Daemon growled in response. “I look forward to taking your head, Bloodraven.” he spat threateningly.

“Always good to see you, Aegor.” Young Bloodraven smirked.

* * *

Bran turned to his captor. “It doesn't feel nice to invade one's memories, does it?” he said. “Now you know how it feels.”

With a shrug, Bloodraven turned away from the scene. “Feel free to explore my past as you see it, Brandon. You know my story – the histories tell it as accurately as it is possible.” he gestured around him, “as you can see, the Blackfyre Rebellion was another reason why House Targaryen must end. Mad kings claiming bastards as legitimate only leads to power struggles and more death.”

“King Daeron ruled justly and wisely for years.” Bran retorted.

“He did. Yet one golden dragon among a pile of shit does not mean the whole pile is now priceless, does it?” Bloodraven chuckled.

The vision faded as the two sides retired to their camps.

Bran paced around the field, feeling the grass under his boots. Nothing to be learned here, he mused. He was still no closer to finding a way to remove Bloodraven from his body – and no closer to saving Jon from death.

He noticed the grass beginning to harden. A cold wind settled over the field as he looked up, the previously sunny and clear sky replaced with dark and oppressive clouds.

“She comes again.” cursed Bloodraven, “it continues to scry into our minds. Trying to find ways to finish what its siblings started.”

“Your death?” Bran asked.

“Our deaths.” he corrected. “the followers of the Cold Ones hate you and Sansa as much as they do Arya, the one who slew the Night King. Yet she is...different to the Others we know, Brandon.”

He felt the blue eyes staring at him from across the now frozen field. “I see her.” Bran pointed towards where she stood, un moving.

“Pay her no notice.” hissed Bloodraven. “Ah, it would seem our time here is at an end.” he seemed relieved as he spoke those words, “we have plans to see through. Plans she will not be a part of.”

* * *

Bran took his hand off the weirwood, the smiling face still gazing at him. The Wolf's Den was a place of great power, with the trees here having ancient and vast histories that allowed for a stable experience for one of his power.

He turned his gaze towards the three men who stood at the entrance to the godswood. “Your Grace,” called Lysenno, “I have brought them as commanded.” he bowed.

He knew them at once, of course. Roger Ryswell, Lord of the Rills and Robett Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte. Two of the most outspoken figures against Aegon Targaryen – both of whom would help see his plan succeed.

“My lords,” he said flatly, “I thank you for coming.”

Ryswell nodded, bowing his head as he stepped closer to Bran. “When I received your raven, Your Grace, I must say – it was rather surprising, but welcome.”

“Have you both had time to consider my proposal?”

Glover nodded, stepping forward to where Lord Roger stood. “We have, but I have concerns.”

Bran nodded. “Your concerns are understandable, Lord Glover. However you can be assured that I do not plan to move against Sansa or her control of the North. The land shall continue to be independent and free as agreed. I only seek to remove a problem that exists for both of us.”

_It was easy to lie to these men_, Bloodraven mused. Northerners were in no way adept to the ways of the south – though perhaps it was not fair to say that, given that the blood of the First Men was his own as well. He had every plan to place the North back into the Six Kingdoms eventually – but one thing at a time.

“Lord Roger should travel ahead of us.” Bran said, “as your position on Sansa's council gives you more influence. Once we arrive outside the gates you and your men should detain Aegon and move to open the gates – where I will speak with Sansa myself.”

Ryswell nodded. “I have fifty men at my command, Your Grace. If you give us some time I can return to the Rills and -”

“No. That is not needed.” Fifty would do. Winterfell was split in terms of its loyalties as it stood – the cold ones having tried to assassinate Sansa a prime example of that. “Lord Glover, you will travel with my party. Bring the men of your household guard.”

Lord Robett nodded. “It will be good to have an end to House Targaryen.” he spat, gruffly. “Queen Sansa gave us our freedom – but she chooses to bring him back as well? _Madness._ After all that cursed family has done, utter madness.”

He could feel Brandon fighting against him, the sensation being that of a pulsing and erratic headache. Still, his efforts were not a threat to the power that he was able to control – whereas Bran's own was untrained and learned, even after his own tutelage.

“Will Lord Manderly be joining us?” asked Ryswell, scratching at his beard.

Bran shook his head. “No. He remains ambivalent, afraid to decide lest he make the wrong choice.”

“Coward.” grumbled Glover.

“We begin travelling to Winterfell in one week.” he said, tapping his fingers on the weirwood. “Sansa knows I am here and am coming to visit her. It is important to not reveal our plans until such a time that we are ready.”

“I will set out in the morning, then.” Lord Ryswell nodded. “But one thing, Your Grace.” He paused, eyeing the Lorathi and Lord Robett as he considered his words. “My loyalty is to Winterfell and the Queen. I ask – no, plead – that you do not do anything to force me to abandon that loyalty in regards to her.”

“The King has no desire for such matters,” Lysenno was quick to point out, “we are interested in -”

“Aegon Targaryen, yes.” the old man huffed. “Once he is removed, do not ask me to bow or kneel before you.”

“Of that you have no need for fears or anxieties.” The Lorathi patted his shoulder.

* * *

As the trio left the godswood Bloodraven allowed himself a moment to relax. Finally, he thought. Centuries of training, of building and of learning – it would pay off. And once he had laid the foundations for a better world he could finally rest.

He thought of his mother and sisters, long dead and gone. Of Shiera, who he loved most of all. Death was not something he feared – in truth he looked forward to seeing them again.

_High in the halls of the kings that are gone,_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts..._

* * *


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never understood why Davos of all people just up and gave up on Jon at the whole great council thing

Sansa looked at the scroll again before placing it on the table. “As we now know, King Bran is on his way here; a way for the North and the Six Kingdoms to build ties once again, he vows.” she said, her eyes darting to the men sat before her.

“According to his raven, he rides for Deepwood Motte and should reach there within three days.” she finished, “as sovereign of the North I feel we should dispatch an honour guard to welcome him home, if only for a short while. No matter what he may be now, he was born a Stark of Winterfell.”

Lord Roger rose to his feet, offering a bow of his head. “Your Grace, I would be honoured to escort the King to Winterfell. My household guard is with me here, and we can leave at once. A lord and member of the Queen's Council would be an appropriate party.”

She could not argue with his logic. “Go at once, Lord Roger. May your travel be unremarkable.”

As the Lord of the Rills left the room, Sansa turned to the other men. “In the meantime, we should take stock of our food stores. Bran will not have a large party, but we will have him and whoever of his Kingsguard he deems to bring.”

As Ser Edwyle scrawled onto a parchment in front of him Sansa pressed a hand to her stomach gently. _Jon will be back soon,_ she thought. It would be a happy reunion between the last Starks – save for Arya, who no one had heard from since her departure.

“Your Grace? The reinforcements from the winter town have arrived and have been deployed as you commanded.” Ser Marc interrupted her musings, “with the King's arrival I thought it prudent to permanently increase the size of our garrison, given the incident with the Cold Ones.”

That was a given. “They may wish to strike at the last of the Starks when we are together.” she replied, nodding her assent. “See to it, Ser Marc.”

It was difficult not to worry, with events unfolding around her as they were.

“Hope it will be enough.” mused Val from her seat. “the cult won't stop just because we put up more boys with swords.”

“Still, it will make it harder for them to accomplish much.” Ser Marc quipped to her.

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. “Yes?” called Sansa.

“Commander Snow, Your Grace.” called the familiar voice of her guard captain. “I apologize for my intrusion but Lord Davos has arrived at the gates. He claims he must speak with you urgently.”

That was a surprise. _What was Lord Davos doing here?_ Sansa knew he served as Bran's Master of Ships, and by all accounts he had been able to restore the royal fleet in a remarkable period of time back to functionality.

More over, he'd been one of Jon's closest advisors before that – which still left a sour taste in her mouth, given how almost all of Jon's allies had abandoned him following Daenerys's death.

“Send him in.” she replied.

* * *

Entering the room the Onion Knight bowed his head, offering a smile towards her. “Queen Sansa – I am happy to see you again. It has been too long.” he said in his fatherly tone, “though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Sansa smiled back at him. “I must say, my lord – I was surprised to find out you were here. Have you rode ahead of Bran's party?” she asked politely.

Davos shook his head, his expression grave and serious. “No, Your Grace. I...the King doesn't know I'm here.” he sighed, gesturing to one of the chairs. “May I?”

After Sansa gave his assent, he took a seat and ran a hand through his hair. “The King...he's not coming here for..well, for anything important to do with diplomacy.” he admitted, eyes fixed upon her. “He's here to...well...”

Sansa raised a brow. “Here to what, Davos?”

“He's coming to demand Jon's death.”

* * *

A wave of emotion flooded into her as he spoke those words. Anger, rage, sadness, and disbelief. Sansa was not sure which to feel most of all.

Thankfully, Ser Edwyle was the one who spoke first. “I apologize, my lord – but you must be mistaken. King Bran and Lord Jon grew up together as brothers.” he pointed out, shaking his head, “he has no reason to wish for Jon's death.”

“I know, I know.” Davos ran both hands through his hair, which Sansa noted was soaked in sweat. “but I would not be here if it wasn't the truth.”

“And what truth would that be, my lord?” Sansa spat. “Why would my brother, who has ruled wisely and justly for the last year from all accounts, wish to come North – to a kingdom that he does not have authority to enact punishment in – all for the sake of Jon? What evidence have you?”

“It was discussed openly in the Small Council, for one.” Davos replied. “I resigned as Master of Ships when I couldn't talk the King out of it. I was detained by the Kingsguard but...I managed to escape and bartered for passage on a trade vessel heading to White Harbour.”

Sansa felt the anger washing over her. “Why, then?”

“I don't know!” Davos sounded shaken. “all I know is that the King has surrounded himself with...men who are hostile to the Targaryen dynasty. He claims that Jon – er, Aegon Targaryen – needs to die so as to prevent strife and chaos in the realm.”

“There is no Targaryen dynasty!” Sansa slammed her hand on the table. “House Targaryen is GONE. Was it not enough for the 'council' to exile and condemn Jon for doing what had to be done, hmm? Now these malcontents and evil men wish to see him dead too?”

Davos shrugged. “I wish I knew, Your Grace. But the King...well, he seems to believe it to be the only choice for the realm.”

Sansa rose to her feet. “And what about you, Lord Davos? With respect, how can I trust you? You were quick to abandon Jon when Bran became King and offered you a place on his council – but now you are here once again.”

It was satisfying to watch as the man flinched at her words. “I didn't abandon him, Your Grace!” he pleaded, “I...I wanted to save him. Gods know I did. But what could I do? I'm the son of a crabber. I have no power. I hated what was decided.”

“If you did you would have pushed back as loudly as I did.” she retorted.

“You're right.” Davos's face fell, “but I was afraid to say anything.”

Sansa sighed. She knew it was not right to take her anger out upon him. The sadness and fear started to show itself; this news was a catastrophe. She would not, of course surrender Jon to be condemned based on the blood flowing through his veins – which as far as Sansa was concerned was the same blood that she had – but why Bran would do something like this was beyond her.

“We...we should send a raven to Castle Cerwyn at once.” Ser Edwyle said softly. “We can turn Lord Roger around before her arrives at Deepwood -”

“No.” Sansa shook her head. “I...I don't want Bran or his party getting suspicious.”

“There's more, Your Grace.” Davos cleared his throat. “During the meeting we were told that there were Northern lords who would support the King's demand for Jon's death. I...I don't know who they were, as they never told us that, but I feel you should watch for betrayal.”

Sansa wanted to scream – to cry, to shout and rend and tear the whole realm limb from limb. _Has Jon not sacrificed enough for the petty desires of these wantons?! _

“Who are these cowards?” Ser Marc said angrily. “No one will take Lord Snow while we draw breath, not even King Bran! He is a hero to the North – the true people of the North who know what he did and why he did it.”

“I know. I agree with you.” Davos nodded.

Sansa took her seat, rubbing her stomach once again.

“As far as the Free Folk go, any man or woman who tries to hurt the king crow will get their guts ripped out and fed to 'em.” Val shrugged. “Simple as that.”

Sansa gestured to one of her guard. “Please...escort Lord Davos to a comfortable room.”

As the pair left she turned to her advisers. “Something happened to Bran. Why...why would he do this?” she asked, rhetorically. “I...we need to find out what happened to him beyond the Wall. We all know he...changed.”

“Who can we ask, Your Grace?” said Ser Edwyle, offering a withered hand upon her own for support.

“Send a raven to Moat Cailin. Tell the garrison to send a rider to the Neck. Find Lord Howland Reed and summon him to Winterfell. His daughter, Meera as well. Also....tell him to bring as many men at arms as he can.” she commanded, her face stony.

_No one will take him. Not again. _

* * *


	21. Chapter 21

“We have to prepare.” Jon said as he entered the Great Hall, offering a bow to Sansa as he did so. He was sweating heavily, his breathing laboured and ragged. He'd rode from Castle Black as hard as he could, pushing the poor horse to its limits.

Sansa rose to her feet and was quick to close the gap between them, embracing him tightly. Her scent was a relief to his nearly-shattered mind, and he allowed a moment of relaxation as she hugged him.

“I missed you too.” she said sarcastically.

Bashful, Jon took her hands and kissed them. “I...sorry.” he mumbled.

Tormund – who'd come storming in right behind him – shook his head. “We've been riding almost non fuckin' stop from Castle Black.” he complained, “I could barely get two words out of him!”

“She...she showed me what is going on. With Bran..” Jon sighed, looking between his friend and his beloved. Sansa rested a hand on his chest as he shuddered.

“We've received a raven from him. He is on his way here to visit.” Sansa offered.

“I know. But that...thing...that is coming. It's not Bran.” Jon said. “Tell me. Do...do any of you know about greenseers?”

“Aye.” Tormund nodded. “They can use the trees to see things in the past an' the present, so the tales say. They're rare – even rarer then the wargs.”

Jon did his best to explain the situation to them; about Bloodraven and how he had taken control of Bran's mind, and how he now sought the destruction of the Targaryen bloodline for a delusional belief in a better future.

He looked to Sansa's stomach. “She told me that...you're with child.” he whispered.

She smiled and brought one of his hands gently to her skin. “I wanted to tell you when you returned, but...well, it seemed that this wildling spoiled the surprise.” she said, allowing his hand to rest there.

“Hah!” Tormund beamed, slapping Jon on the shoulder. “Baby crow is gonna be a father!”

“Aren't you listening?” Jon sighed, trying to tear his gaze from Sansa's stomach. From where his child grew within her. _I will be a father,_ the realization washed over him like a flood._ A child – a son or daughter – to call my own. _

“This Bloodraven will want the destruction of any with the dragon blood. Any...any child I have will have the same tainted lineage as I.”

Sansa frowned. “I do not care what this Bloodraven wants. He will not have you or Bran or our child.” she said firmly, “We are home. This is our place, Jon – yours and mine. No amount of green sight or dragon will take you away again.”

From behind the trio a man cleared his throat. “I don't mean to interrupt, but I heard he was back.” Ser Davos smiled, looking to Jon.

Jon wheeled around, rushing over and embracing him tightly. He had not seen his old friend – and tireless supporter – since he'd departed from King's Landing. At last hearing he knew that the Onion Knight was now Master of Ships for Bran's small council; _a good role for him_, he'd thought.

“It's good to see you too, lad!” Davos exclaimed, “and you too, Tormund.” he said as an afterthought.

“I never thought I would see you again.” Jon admitted as he released the man reluctantly.

Davos shrugged. “Fate has a way of fucking us right up, doesn't it?” he laughed, patting Jon's shoulder. “Listen, before anythin' else...I wanted to say that I'm sorry. About what happened in the capital. I should have...should've done more for you.”

Jon shook his head. “You couldn't do anything, Davos. Do not blame yourself, do you hear me?” While Jon had resented Davos's silence on the matter of his imprisonment, he had realized that the man had no allies or voices beyond that of his own; as an up-jumped commoner he could do little to influence the high lords of the realm.

“While this is touching, we should be preparing for this Bloodraven.” Val added as she strolled in behind Davos. “Did your Night Queen tell you anything about how to stop him?”

Jon nodded. “She has the power of the green sight, too. Likely from her...transformation. From what she showed me, it's clear that he hates her presence. It hurts him, I would say. Disrupts his control of Bran's mind.”

Sansa looked thoughtful. “So if we are able to get her to be in close proximity of Bran...would it be able to drive Bloodraven out?”

“She's back at Castle Black.” Jon said, “I was not going to bring that...thing...here.”

* * *

A sudden cold washed into the room. Jon felt his body grow cold as the air grew thick.

“Oh, this isn't good!” growled Tormund, reaching for his blade.

Jon wrapped his arm around Sansa, drawing Longclaw with his free hand. Val quickly joined him at her side, spear at the ready. The Hall was now encased in mist, and it was growing increasingly difficult for him to see.

“If you wish to save young Brandon, you will need me.”

The voice echoed around them. Jon's dread only grew as he watched the figure saunter into the room, the crackling of ice announcing her arrival.

“Stand down!” Sansa shouted, pulling herself away from Jon and approaching the figure.

The woman did not move. Her eyes simply studied Sansa as she stood before her. “I am Sansa Stark. Queen of the North – this is my kingdom and my home.” she growled, “and I will not allow you to cause such destruction here. Cast off your illusions and let us speak properly.”

The cold faded around them, returning the hall to its original state.

Tormund and Val stood at Sansa's sides, weapons pointed towards the woman. She did not react, only offering a thin and eerie smile towards the trio.

Jon quickly rushed to her side, Longclaw still drawn. “How did you get here?”

“The powers of winter are beyond simple understanding, Aegon Targaryen.” she replied, voice now soft and...almost normal. Her skin was still deathly pale and her eyes an unnatural blue, but she almost appeared as a normal human would.

“It's alright, Jon.” Sansa assured him, resting her hand on his shoulder.

The woman nodded. “I am not here to harm thee. We share a goal; the destruction of the three eyed crow. He is an obstacle for both of us that must be removed.”

Turning her gaze back to the woman, Sansa nodded. “I will not have this crow take my brother. Now, is there a way to expel this presence from his body?”

“Perhaps.” she answered, “but young Brandon must have the strength to see it through.”

Jon reluctantly sheathed his sword, Tormund and Val doing the same. “What do you propose?”

The woman ignored him, turning her gaze to rest upon Davos. The man was pale with fear as he stared at her with horror in his eyes. “Aegon Targaryen's faithful companion.” she mused.

“The fuck did I miss?” Davos mumbled, looking to Jon.

“What do you propose?” Jon growled. He felt anger building inside of him;

The doors to the great hall were still open, a dozen Stark men standing with shields and swords ready, looks of terror upon their faces. Sansa waved them off and returned her gaze to the woman. “If you can help us, speak now else we cut you to ribbons as we did your 'brothers'.”

“When he arrives I will be able to use the sight to enter his mind. When that is underway he will be fighting for control of the body – young Brandon must use that time to expel the crow from his mind lest he be lost forever.” the woman explained. “you will not succeed without me.”

“Your followers,” Jon thrust a finger towards her. “will stand down and leave the North. No more symbols or attacks on us or the Free Folk.”

She shook her head. “Mine still demand vengeance for the lost. I can neither refuse them nor dissuade them. We shall meet in battle, Aegon Targaryen – it has been foretold.” she whispered, running a hand across his cheek. “but for now, the crow is our target.”

Jon stumbled back, the intense cold from the woman's hand making his skin burn.

“Your Grace!” shouted Commander Snow as he advanced into the hall. “What...who is this thing?”

Sansa held up a hand towards him. “We share a common enemy, Commander. Escort...her...to the godswood. If she tries anything...” she gazed back towards the woman hatefully, “...show her what we did to the White Walkers.”

Nodding, the commander gestured to his men who formed a circle around her.

The woman only smiled as she exited the hall, the guards quickly keeping pace with her.

* * *

“We should destroy it.” said Tormund with a nod. “Never mind her lies. She...it...whatever...is bad news.”

“It's unholy.” Val observed.

Jon could not help but agree. “I know, but we need her...it...to free Bran.”

“Once this is over, we can remove these cold ones from the North once and for all – so they need not trouble us or the Free Folk again.” Sansa stated. “but for now, she is a necessary player in our game. I cannot – will not – allow another one of my family to fall.”

Davos – who had recovered his complexion somewhat – shuddered as he looked to Sansa. “Whatever we do, we have to act fast.” he noted, “You said your man Ryswell was riding to meet the King?”

“Yes, at Deepwood. Him and Lord Glover will bring Bran with an honour escort -”

“Ryswell and Glover are working with him.” Jon scowled, “they plan to enter Winterfell and force you to turn me over to be executed. With their men they will try to overpower the garrison long enough for you to comply.”

“They will fail.” Sansa felt her own anger building up. “Damn these fools. Glover, Ryswell – faithless as ever.”

Jon shook his head. “They're scared. Both of them still admire and revere you, but their dislike for the tainted bloodline of House Targaryen is...well known. The same tainted blood I share.”

“Your blood is not tainted, Jon. You are the blood of the North as I am.” Sansa smiled, pulling him in for a kiss. “Our child will be a child of the North. A free North; I care not what these petty lords want to believe about you.”

“I hate to put a damper on this touching moment, but we should gather the garrison.” noted Davos.

* * *


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again not my favorite chapter, but i hope it was ok. I wanted to show how I imagined Bloodraven in the show went from his old body(an image of which found here https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/File:Bloodraven.jpg) to the one played by the late Max Von Sydow.
> 
> also the time line is from what I read as follows; Brynden disappeared beyond the wall in 252 AC, and season 8 takes place in 305 AC, this is a year after that so it is now 306 AC. 
> 
> hope you guys are staying safe and healthy from this covid stuff. sadly my job is marked as essential so I still have to work.

Stepping into the godswood, Sansa turned to Commander Snow. “Has there been any change?”

“No, Your Grace.” he replied, looking to the heart tree. “She's just been...standing there..since we brought her here. It is quite unnerving, in all honesty.”

Nodding, Sansa gazed at the woman. She appeared perfectly still, hand resting on the trunk of the tree. A sense of fear began to gnaw at her mind but she did her best to fight it off. _If there is any way to save Bran, I must take it. _

She began moving towards the tree at a brisk pace, one hand resting protectively over her stomach. It was a maternal instinct, her hand maids told her, and one she had taken to with surprising speed given that her child was still early in its development.

The woman turned her head at Sansa's approach, the piercing blue eyes gazing into her.

“We need to learn more about Bloodraven if we are to defeat him.” Sansa said, standing up as straight as she could, meeting the unnatural gaze with her own steeled eyes. “You will tell me what you know and how...how we can best him from Bran's body.”

She was Queen, and needed to show that she was in control of the situation as she was in any other. Supernatural creatures or not, the stuff of ancient legends would not frighten her out of her own home – her own kingdom – especially now.

“I admire your boldness, Your Grace.” she mused, taking her hand from the tree and turning to face her. “truly you hold the wolf blood within you as your ancestors did.” Her voice crackled slightly with every word; likely due to her unique condition.

Frowning, Sansa turned and pointed behind her to the group of guards. “I have men there ready to fetter you with obsidian arrows at the first sign from me.” she shrugged, “I do not know if they will end you as they did your 'brothers', but I suggest you understand that you are here at my mercy.”

“We shall meet on the field of battle soon, Your Grace.” she smiled. “but as of now I am not your enemy. If you wish to know more of Bloodraven, I will show thee.”

“Show me?” Sansa raised a brow. “We are not leaving Winterfell.”

“I speak of the sight. My creators gifted me with its ability as they did Bloodraven. Take my hand and I can bring you into a vision as a witness, a silent observer.” she extended a pale hand towards her.

Sansa knew better then to trust this woman, this...thing...standing before her. But how else could she find out more? There was almost nothing written, nothing known of how Bloodraven and his powers worked save for Bran – who could tell them nothing while his mind was displaced.

The hand was cold and stiff as she took it, a shiver running up her spine.

* * *

Before she could blink Sansa found herself knee deep in snow. All around her was a blinding storm, with the drifts so thick that she could barely see a hand in front of her face. Yet she felt no cold, no shivers, nothing – it was as though she was not even here.

“What is this?” she shouted. The woman was nowhere to be found – though she could easily be a few feet in front of her given the storm.

“A vision.” a voice called as her 'guide' emerged from in front of her. “Your body is still within Winterfell and its godswood, but your mind and mine own are here now. Beyond the Wall, some fifty-four years in the past.”

Extending her hand once again Sansa took it, feeling as she was gently pulled forward.

“What does this have to do with Bloodraven?” she asked her guide.

“This is the moment of his true creation. “ the woman replied, gesturing forward. The storm in front of them cleared and they pressed forward, the mouth of a small cave coming into focus. The faint and far off sounds of voices could be heard from it.

Entering the cave, Sansa spotted two figures – one leaning against the wall, the other kneeling before him. Both men were clad in the blacks of the Night's Watch – but what were they doing so far beyond the Wall?

“Lord Commander, wake up!” the kneeling man was shouting.

The man on the ground was deathly pale and wrinkled, with a red birth-mark upon his cheek. His white hair jostled as his companion shook him, his breathing laboured and harsh. His clothes were coated with snow and his teeth chattered wildly with every breath.

His eyes slowly opened as he looked around the cavern. “We...we made it..” he mumbled.

“Yes, ser. Come on...we're almost there.” the other man gingerly helped him to his feet. “Just a few metres down, just like the little one said.”

Sansa looked around, seeing no one else. Her guide gestured to a passage to the left of the men, one that wound deeper into the earth.

At the head of the passage was a child – or, at least what looked like a child. It was no human, but it was green skinned and covered in what appeared to be vines. Its cat like eyes stared at the two men expectantly.

“That's a Child of the Forest.” Sansa remembered her lessons.

Her guide nodded. “It called itself 'Leaf' in the tongues of men. Ironically, it was the one who pressed the dragonglass to our chests and created us.” She smiled and gestured to the visible lump resting above her breasts.

“You are almost here, Brynden Rivers. Master Branch awaits you.” the creature stated, its voice almost musical to Sansa's ears.

“The visions...” he whispered hoarsely as his companion helped him ahead. “the sight...”

“All will be revealed.” it assured him.

* * *

Walking to the end of the passage faster then the others, Sansa and her guide found themselves underneath a weirwood. The roots were large and long, snaking everywhere she looked. Bones – hundreds of animal and possibly human – littered the floor of the cave. She saw the glowing eyes of other Children around them.

A figure sat in the middle of the root system. It too was a Child, but seemed much smaller than the others. It was thin and appeared frail; its gnarled hands gesturing to the trio as they entered the cave.

“Branch, it called itself.” her guide explained, “one of the original greenseers and the one who taught Bloodraven. It was old when men were young. Its time is coming to an end, and it sought a worthy successor to its power.”

Sansa watched as the two black brothers entered the chamber, the more healthy of the two setting Brynden down on one of the rocks. The other man – who appeared as old and grizzled then his Lord Commander – looked around the cave with visible fear. “I never thought I'd see a place like this...” he mumbled.

“All things are...are possible, Medwyk.” Rivers assured him with a faint smile. “more so now...”

His eyes began to shut as he slumped over. The man named Medwyk rushed to his side, shaking him frantically. “His breathin' is getting shallow. I think he's dying!” he shouted to no one in particular.

“The body is not strong enough.” Branch's voice was like the rustling of dry leaves. “It will perish soon.”

Medwyk turned to the seated figure. “How do we help him?! You brought him here, you have to help him!”

“There is a way. The transfer of mind into another body.” it replied, “but it comes at cost.”

“I've followed him for years, since Redgrass.” Medwyk's voice was desperate, “I followed him to the Wall. I'll do whatever I can to save him! Tell me!” he pleaded. Sansa was moved by the man's devotion.

The crackling of bark greeted her ears as the one called Branch rose from its seat. It slowly worked its way over to where the prone Brynden lay, his breathing irregular now. “The cost will see your mind destroyed. Will you bear the sacrifice for the one you are devoted to, Medwyk?”

With no hesitation he nodded.

“Lay down beside him. Know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten by the land. Your spirit shall live on in the roots of the world.” it smiled.

Sansa watched as Medwyk obeyed. Branch placed a gnarled hand – or claw, talon, whatever – upon his brow. Another hand went to Brynden's.

The whooshing of wind – first a breeze, then a gale and then a steady gust – emerged from the mouth of Branch. Sansa was bewildered; what kind of powers did this greenseer have? Could Bran do such a thing, even? He had never done so while at Winterfell.

“The language of the children is alien to human ears, wolf queen.” her guide observed. “It is speaking the words of ritual.”

After what felt like hours, its mouth closed and it slumped over. Two Children quickly rushed to its side, helping it limp back towards its seat. Sansa ignored them, her eyes gazing at Brynden and Medwyk.

Medwyk's eyes opened and he screamed, thrashing about wildly.

“Calm yourself, Brynden Rivers.” the one called Leaf stood at his side. “Your mind is now within a more stable body.”

“Medwyk?” he asked, feeling his face with growing horror. “What did you do?!”

“He offered himself as a host. The trees will remember him.” it assured him.

Branch – who had retaken its seat at the centre of the roots – gestured towards “Brynden”. “You have come as called. Now, your training may truly begin – and you will wear the mantle of the seer within time. Your old life is over, Brynden Rivers. Soon you will walk and fly above all men.”

Sansa watched as the world began to darken around her, as though she was closing her eyes. “What's happening?”

“We are returning to Winterfell.” her guide said, the voice now growing faint.

* * *

Sansa gasped as she stumbled backwards, her guard quickly rushing to her side with their swords drawn. “Stand down!” she ordered them as she rose to her feet, breathing quickly. The sensation within her body was...strange. She felt as though she was waking from a dream.

“Can you transfer bodies like the Children?” she asked her guide.

“Young Brandon must help expel Bloodraven from his body.” she repeated, “but mine power can force him into oblivion once and for all.”

Sansa took in what was said. Her hands trembled as she rested them on her stomach once more._ I will do anything to protect you_, she thought. Her child – and Jon's – was what mattered. If working with this creature is what it would take to keep them safe – and get Bran back from the clutches of some magic she did not understand – so be it.

“We will be ready.” she assured the woman.

* * *


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've noticed in some fics by amazing writers that the north/the starks hate jon for what he did(bending the knee, etc). i just don't subscribe to the idea sansa and arya hate him for what happened. I think Jon was making the best of a bad situation and that he didn't really "love" Daenerys, but was trying to keep his home safe. and besides, the burning of king's landing was on her, not on him. 
> 
> so maybe my fics are a bit too "happy" with Jon/Sansa reuniting after his exile, but that's just how i choose to write them. 
> 
> anyway i hope you guys enjoy <3

Jon rested his hands on Sansa's stomach. “Our child.” he whispered, still disbelieving. “I...I never thought I would have one of my own.”

Sansa grinned, her hands caressing his softly. “I am still only one month along, but...yes. Our child.”

He shook his head, glad for the privacy of their chambers. Her chambers, he corrected himself. Officially he was housed with the Free Folk in the western wing – unofficially, however, he spent most of his days and nights here.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Jon smiled back. For a moment, it was easy to forget the troubles of what was to come. Of the confrontation with Bran and the entity currently standing in the godswood. “You know when you give birth, it will be a bastard?” he pointed out. The thought was disquieting to him; he'd vowed never to father a bastard of his own.

Sansa snorted. “I am well aware, Jon.” she snickered. “That is, of course, unless I decide to be proactive about the birth of my heir.”

“What did you have in mind, Your Grace?” Jon's tone was playful, but serious. She was a far better ruler then he would ever be – and he was happy to defer to her on matters of state, given how he felt responsible for the mess he'd left things before.

“For one thing, a full and complete pardon for a certain individual – who will then become my King-Consort and father to the heir to the Kingdom of the North.” she noted with a nod.

He knew the idea was there, of course. It was tempting, to be sure – but Jon was still a person who had done horrible things in the eyes of gods and men. “I am not sure the lords of the North will accept a kinslayer with tainted blood as their King.” he mused.

“Are you with them?” she asked, “or with me?”

Jon shook his head, taking her hands and kissing them softly. “With you, of course. But you know what I mean. Given...what she did in the south, what we were privy to – the blood of House Targaryen is even more reviled today then it was under the Mad King and his legacy. It...it makes me wonder, Sansa. Why do you not hate me as others do? I surrendered the North to her.”

Sansa sighed. She knew that Jon felt these sensations of guilt and shame; it was something that she had done her best to help him through. But perhaps, talking openly about their feelings would be one step closer to helping him heal. “Because I love you. I know you – what you've done – was for the good of our people. Yes, I did hate you when you bent the knee – I thought it reckless and stupid, as many others did – but we did need her armies.

More over, look at what happened to King's Landing. Placating her with your loyalty was...well, it was smart. I knew she would not be a woman of reason, truthfully. The first time we met I saw it in her eyes. The domination and entitlement she craved.”

She kissed him softly, their lips mingling just a moment. “So no, whatever you may say will not make me hate you, Jon. Sorry, but you will be stuck with me – given that I know you are a good leader, a good person – someone who others will follow. You are what the North needs – what I need. A husband and father who will treat me...us...right.” she placed a hand gently on her stomach.

“Thank you, Sansa.” Jon lowered his head. “These thoughts, these emotions...they sometimes threaten to overwhelm me. That was why I went beyond the Wall for so long. To try to escape, I suppose. But...all along, I needed to be here – home.”

“The horrors of King's Landing are on her, not you.” she assured him. “I was ready to go to war with that blasted city to free you from the Unsullied. You are damned right you needed to be here.” Sansa smirked, causing him to laugh. “We will overcome any challenge – this battle against Bloodraven or the Night's Queen. It matters not.”

Jon nodded. “As ever, Your Grace – you are right.” he said, laying down on the bed. “For now, we should rest. I have a feeling we'll need it.”

Laying down next to him Sansa wrapped her arms around his waist. From where she lay she watched Ghost sleeping by the hearth, the big wolf's snores remarkably soft for one his size.

_This is my home,_ she thought. Finally, she was not alone among unfamiliar faces. Sansa had her pack and it was not leaving again. No matter who or what demanded it.

* * *

“I doubt the Reed forces will arrive in time to be of use, Lord Howland.” Jon said, “still, I – we – are grateful for your presence. Yours as well, Lady Meera. I owe you my thanks for all you have done for Bran.”

Meera smiled, though her face was wracked with sadness. “I wish I could have done more. Kept him whole. What came back wasn't Bran...but what could I do? Jojen was the only one who knew about the green dreams, and he was dead long before the Night King came for us.”

Sansa felt a twinge of sympathy as she watched Meera Reed speak. It was clear from her time with Bran that the girl was in love with him – with Brandon Stark, not this Bloodraven – and his loss had caused her much grief.

“Winterfell's garrison is as ready as we will be, Your Grace.” Ser Marc said from her right. “Every man here will stand against southern forces or cold ones all the same in the name of House Stark.”

“Still, the thought of being able to free Bran from the grip of this 'three eyed raven' does encourage me.” Lord Howland noted, resting a gnarled hand on his daughter's shoulder. “though the thing that offers its help does concern me.”

“Concerns all of us, bog man.” Tormund mused, “Ever since she got here all she's done is stand by that weirwood. Doesn't move, doesn't eat or sleep.”

“As Tormund said, it concerns all of us, my lord.” Jon said, looking to Tormund and Val. “but any chance to save him from the grasp of this being is one we should take. Battles have been won against greater odds, after all.” he smirked Sansa's way.

“So, what is the plan for when the King arrives?” asked Davos.

Sansa rested her hands on the arms of her chair. “We open the gates as planned and welcome the King's party into Winterfell. We must make them think that all is as it should be and we are not aware of their plan for coming here.”

“But Bran has the sight,” said Meera. “he likely knows what we are up to.”

“Not so, my lady.” Sansa countered. “Our visitor in the godswood has assured me that Bloodraven's ability to use his sight is obstructed and blocked due to her proximity to him. Something in regards to her...magical origins.”

“Well, that's...convenient.” she replied, suspicious.

Sansa shrugged. “It seems that she and Bloodraven are old enemies. Kind of like he was with the Night King, only...perhaps because she has more free will then the Others did, he views her as more of a threat? I couldn't say.” It was an interesting theory to be sure, but their main purpose was to free Bran and ensure Jon's survival.

“Has there been news of the King's party?” Ser Edwyle asked from her left.

“Master Wolkan says that they have just departed Deepwood and should arrive at Castle Cerwyn within the day.” Sansa responded, picking up the scroll from the table.

Rising to her feet, she looked into the eyes of all those assembled. “We will save Bran from Bloodraven, just as we will ensure that no harm comes to Jon. I will not see the North torn apart by those who still hold onto blood hatreds. More then ever, we must build a new future – one free of old prejudices and southern influence both.”

“We stand with you, Your Grace!” shouted Jon, causing the others to hoot and bang their feet in approval.

* * *

As the room began to empty, Lord Howland remained in his chair, eyes flickering from both Jon to Sansa. “I do not mean to linger, Your Grace – but I have something to discuss with the both of you, if I may.”

“Of course, Lord Reed.” Sansa took a seat next to Jon, who gently grasped her hand.

Coughing loudly, the crannogman said nothing a moment as he wheezed. “Forg..forgive me. The wound I took twenty years ago still causes me issue – no matter what our maesters do, it will be with me until my dying day.”

Fumbling around in one of the pockets of his tunic, he pulled out a letter and placed it onto the table, sliding it towards Jon. “The last time I spoke with him, Lord Eddard – pardon, your father – bid me to give you this should something befall him in the south.” Howland's face fell as he shook his head sadly, “I was unable to leave the Neck owing to my injury, and my children were set on their own paths away from the Wall. I am sorry – truly sorry – that I was unable to bring this to you.”

Jon slid the letter to in front of him, hesitating to open it. He said nothing, but his eyes remained fixated on the parchment.

“Ned asked me to tell you the truth about your parents should he be unable to.” he said with another wheeze, “but given that I was one of – now the only – man to still be alive from that day, I will answer any questions to the best of my ability. I had meant to come to Winterfell sooner, but my health was not...not good.”

“Why?” Jon said, almost as a whisper. “Why would he risk the realm for me?”

The way Jon said it made Sansa's heart sink._ Because he loved you as he did us, Jon. _

Howland took Jon's free hand and squeezed it tightly. “Because you were all that he had of Lyanna. All that he had left of his family, really. More then that – because that was the man Ned was. Come now, my lord, you knew him as I did.”

“I know, Lord Reed. But...ah, I don't know.” Jon sighed. “It seems a stupid risk for the blood of a tainted House.”

“My boy, no matter what you may think of yourself, I can promise you that Ned loved you as he did Sansa, Robb, Bran, Rickon and Arya.” he replied, his aged fingers tightening around Jon's palm. “He told me as much when we last spoke. About how proud he was of the man you had become.”

Groaning, Howland rose to his feet. “Meera, my dear. If you would help me...” he asked as she rushed to his side with his cane. “I would ask you to read that letter, my lord. Oh, and...Ned would be thrilled at the prospect of becoming a grandfather.” he smiled slyly.

As the pair left the room, Jon looked to Sansa. “Shall we read it together?”

Sansa smiled, squeezing his hand tightly. “Perhaps we should wait until tonight. Until you have a chance to rest.” she replied, kissing his cheek softly. “I would love to read it with you, though. But let us wait a while, alright?”

Jon smiled. “You were always good at this.”

* * *


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the confrontation! sorry if it is rubbish I just did not think a battle scene would be a logical way to have this play out; jon and sansa want to avoid spilling blood at all costs. oh and i have not forgotten ned's letter, it shall be read in the next chapter!

Jon gripped the table tightly as the rest of the hall took their seats. Beside him, Tormund and Val had their eyes trained on the high table where Sansa escorted Bran to a seat beside her.

Bran's Kingsguard had taken up positions around the hall, with the Lord Commander Brienne of Tarth standing behind the king as he was wheeled into position. Jon's eyes wandered over the woman as she gripped the hilt of her blade.

Their arrival had been met with the usual fanfare for a visit from a monarch; the North may be free but it was still their responsibility to observe proper protocol; at the very least to keep up the illusion of ignorance as to his visit.

What had unnerved Jon the most was Bran's blank stare as he was lowered from his carriage. He had always looked gaunt and detached, but now more then ever it was a cold and unfeeling gaze; as though he were a healer observing a dying patient.

“It is good to see you again, Jon.” he had said in his emotionless voice, betraying no hint of the plans he had carried out.

_The plan will work,_ Jon told himself. _It will work. Bran will be free. _Still, he was worried – not for himself but for Sansa and their child. Bran, if the gods were good, did not know of her pregnancy – Bloodraven could not use it as leverage against them.

The clinking of glasses drew all eyes to Sansa. She looked as regal and as perfect as ever, he mused. She truly was Queen in the North – it brought a smile to his face; she had conquered so much and overcome so much pain and in the end, stood on the top of a pile of tormentors – all of whom now lay dead.

“I want to thank each and every one of you for your presence today, as we celebrate the visit of a very special guest.” she began, looking around the room. “While we are a free people now -” this statement caused a cheer to erupt among the northmen, and even Jon joined in with a clap, “- we remember the fact that the Six Kingdoms is now ruled by one born in these very halls.”

A polite round of applause followed. “By all accounts, King Brandon is a wise and just ruler who has overseen the repair and rebuild of King's Landing, and indeed the rest of Westeros from the ravages of not only the Dragon Queen but of the War of the Five Kings. A war where thousands of our people lost their lives on distant fields.”

“So I would ask you all to join in a toast with me – to Brandon Stark, First of His Name. King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men – yes, there are still First Men in the south -” A round of laughter from the northmen, “- Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”

Jon joined the hall in raising his glass. “To King Bran!” the room applauded as Sansa took her seat.

The feast was modest by southern standards; a few dishes including lamb and chicken topped off with copious amounts of bread, wine and ale. Still, it was filling – though Jon did not eat much so as to conserve his strength for when Bloodraven made his move.

Looking to his left he slapped Tormund's shoulder – the man was elbow deep in his second horn of ale. “Not so much!” he whispered, “we have to stay sober for...you know.”

“Relax, baby crow.” his friend replied with a belch, “Me record is ten without fallin' over. Har!”

Glancing to the doors Jon tore into a heel of bread. Davos and most of the Winterfell garrison were waiting in the western wing for the signal; one of Sansa's men would slip from the hall in the chaos of the fighting and bring them in.

Less certain he was about the woman in the godswood. He had visited her just before Bran's arrival, finding her still staring up at the weirwood tree.

“When the fight begins -” he tried to say. Her eerie blue eyes silenced him with a glance.

“I will come when the way is clear, Aegon.” she whispered, “once I am within your hall he will be forced to emerge to defend his mind.”

Jon still felt uneasy about all of it. “Bran is not to be hurt,” he insisted. “He is my brother – my blood – and he deserves to have his life back.” he said firmly.

“I cannot promise you success.” she had said simply, “but I shall endeavour to be successful in mine efforts.”

* * *

Turning his gaze back to Sansa Jon felt his heart go at ease. She was in conversation with Bran and he smiled as he watched her laugh. It was melodic, and filled him with a sense of warmth and joy that even was able to fight off the darkness he carried since King's Landing.

_Soon she will hold our child in her arms, and my life will have meaning._ That brought a smile to his face. While he had found peace and freedom with the free folk beyond the Wall and would be ever grateful to them, his true home was here among Winterfell.

_Though I won't say no to visiting, _he thought with a chuckle.

Bran cleared his throat and raised his glass.

_Now it begins, I suppose. _

“I would like to thank you, Queen Sansa, for your welcome and hospitality.” he began flatly, “the land of my birth is recovering from the horrors of war quite well under your leadership. While it is true that my place is in the Red Keep, my home shall always be here in the North.”

Polite applause. “My friends, Westeros – the North included – still faces a long and arduous road ahead to heal the damages and divisions left by the wars of the past. For hundreds of years young men and boys have killed one another in the name of pointless conflicts that paled in comparison to the Long Night we faced here.”

“But that healing cannot truly take place until such a moment that the threats that plagued all of us are permanently removed from our land.” Bran gazed towards Jon before continuing, “so I must regret that my presence here is not only to maintain friendship with the North, but to help remove a threat that sits among us even now.”

Jon's free hand went to his sword hilt.

“The Dragon Queen rained down death and destruction upon King's Landing. Her madness killed thousands and caused great ruin and hardship for those who survived, many who were mangled beyond recognition.” Bran folded his hands in his lap, “even though she is now dead, we must take action to ensure that none of her tainted line are allowed to become such a horror again.”

At this, the Glover and Ryswell men in the room were on their feet in seconds, swords and shields in hand. They disarmed the surprised Stark men as two of his Kingsguard moved towards Jon's table.

Tormund and Val rose to their feet, Tormund angrily shoving one of the men. “Fuck off.” he threatened with a growl.

“Ser Myles.” Lady Brienne had stepped behind the Kingsguard, gesturing him away.

Tormund opened his mouth again but Brienne responded by punching him in the gut with a mailed fist, causing him to drop swiftly to the floor, groaning in pain and intoxication, most likely.

The panic in the room was fevered. Sansa looked surprised and shocked as she rose to her feet. “What is this?!” she pleaded, looking to Bran.

“Aegon Targaryen, the last living scion of that cursed House.” Bran commanded. “In order to see Westeros healed, truly healed – he must die.”

Rising to his feet, Jon looked to Brienne and the other Kingsguard as they took his sword. “This is it, then?” he said, “no redemption for blood ties, Your Grace?”

“Please do not resist, Jon.” Bran nodded to Brienne, who took him by the arm along with the other Kingsguard. “This will be easier for us all if you co operate.”

“Bran! What are you doing?” Sansa looked to her lords. “Lord Ryswell? Lord Glover? This is treason!”

“Forgive me, Your Grace – I am ever loyal to the North, but the King is correct. Jon Snow must die.” said Ryswell.

“Never trust a dragon spawn, Your Grace.” growled Lord Robett.

As they lead him to the centre of the hall to stand before the high table, Jon shook his head. “House Targaryen is dead, Bran.” he said firmly.

“No. It lives on through your blood.” Bran frowned. “This must be done for the good of the realm. Your death will mean an end to infighting, to chaos and turmoil brought by that cursed family.”

“Well, there is one thing you may have forgotten, Your Grace -” Jon grinned.

“And what is that?” asked Bran.

The doors to the hall crashed open as Davos and the garrison entered, accompanied by a half-dozen free folk. “Alright, lads!” he called out as the soldiers filed in. “Drop your weapons and no one needs to die. You're outnumbered.”

The renegade soldiers – some twenty five in all – did as he commanded, dropping their blades to the floor. The Northern soldiers then went for Bran's Kingsguard.

“Get their blades.” Davos ordered.

“Not all can be seen in visions.” Jon took back his blade from Brienne and held it to her throat.

It was satisfying as he watched Bloodraven's eyes grow wide. _Fear,_ Jon thought. _He's afraid for the first time in a long time. Good. _

“What is this?” Bran choked, “What – how did this happen?!”

Intense cold began to waft into the room. The fear in his voice only grew as the woman's shadow entered the hall, causing all within her path to scatter to the sides.

“You...” Bran gaped. “How is this possible?”

Striding forward the woman smiled as she stepped up to where he sat, frozen in shock. “The power of winter is more than you think, Bloodraven.” she said, “two enemies may unite against a greater threat – you have been that greater threat for many a moon. I shall destroy thee as mine brother failed to.”

“No. Get away!” he cried, crashing to the floor in a futile attempt to crawl away.

Jon – keeping his sword on Brienne's throat – stepped forward. “Don't hurt him! This was not what we planned.”

Sansa – who had rushed off to the side of the table – leaned down and grasped Bran in her arms.

“Let me go!” he shouted, trying to pull away.

“You will give me back my brother, Bloodraven.” she glared.

The woman knelt down next to the pair. She placed a cold hand on Bran's face and he screamed, both of their eyes rolling backwards as they did while warging, Jon knew.

Brienne tried to move forward but Jon blocked her path. “I must help the King!” she pleaded.

“You stay where you are unless you want this through your throat.” he growled.

Bran had begun to convulse as the woman whispered something in a tongue he did not recognize; it was alien and wrong to his ears, as though the sound of ice shattering on water as it boiled. The room had began to freeze; icicles formed on the tables and walls and many of the soldiers were shivering uncontrollably.

Jon said a prayer to the old gods. _Let Bran live. _

* * *

The vision he found himself in was unlike anything he had experienced before, even when Bloodraven had spent his nights trying to enlist him into his “righteous” cause.

The Red Keep was crumbling around him as Bran stumbled into the throne room. The walls and floors were erupting with thick sheets of ice, while new brick and marble were appearing in a desperate attempt to fend off the growths.

It was in the throne room that he found Bloodraven, who held a crazed look in his eyes. It was something primal, feral – _he's afraid,_ Bran knew at once. He could feel the man's power ebbing as he struggled to hold back the coming tide of ice.

“What's the matter, Bloodraven?” Bran asked, “Have you found someone even you cannot best?”

“Be silent, boy!” he shouted, “This is MY body, witch! Be gone!”

A cold hand gripped Bran's shoulder. Turning around, startled, he came face to face with the woman called the Night's Queen. She did not appear threatening towards him, which was a surprise – but she wore a smile of – what was it? Triumph? Gloating?

“Use your power, Brandon Stark.” she whispered, stepping towards the now kneeling Bloodraven. “I am working to expel him from your mind. Take back control of thine body.”

Bloodraven howled, grasping at his head as she grew closer. “A better world!” he cried, “One free of madness and pain! The boy was my vessel! I made him who he is! I made him King, I raised him up! All of this is MY achievement!”

The room continued to shatter around him.

“Thine power has grown complacent, Bloodraven.” she whispered, “My brothers failed to defeat you as their nature was still that of our creators. But I am the fusion, the blend of creation that is needed to best thee.”

“Without me...” he croaked, looking to Bran, “the realm will fail. More will die! Brandon! Please!”

Bran scowled. “You dare ask me for help?! You violated my mind, my body – my free will.”

“Use your mind! It was for the greater good!”

“Your greater good. Not mine.” Bran felt anger bubbling inside of him.

Bloodraven screamed as his legs froze solid. The ice began to creep up his body as he writhed in agony. “Everything I have done...all for the realm. Oh, mother, Shiera...my beloved...I am so so sorry...” he whispered as the ice consumed his head.

“Use your power. Reclaim control of your mind.” the Queen turned to face him. “We shall not meet again, Brandon Stark.”

Focusing hard, Bran forced himself back through the fog of his consciousness. He felt control returning, closer and closer...he was almost there...almost himself again....

He awoke on the floor of Winterfell's Great Hall with a scream.

* * *


	25. Chapter 25

Sansa gripped the arms of her chair tightly as she readied herself. _The sooner this is done, the better. _

Rickard Ryswell was a tall and powerfully built man with a thick black beard. Sansa thought that he reminded her of one of the Umbers in appearance. Still, he wore the horse-head of House Ryswell and his allegiance was well known.

“Lord Rickard.” she said as he came to stand in the centre of the hall. “I trust you know why you are here.”

Bowing low, the man nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Though I have not come to beg mercy for my brother – but rather for mine House.” he said, a nervous tone evident in his deep voice. “Roger was a fool – always had been – but I knew nothing of his plans of treason, only that he asked me to travel with him to Winterfell.”

Sansa took in his explanation carefully. She'd ordered Lords Roger and Robett Glover sent to the dungeons for their treachery during Bloodraven's attempt at murdering Jon, and it now fell to her to determine if Rickard – Roger's younger brother and heir, as he had no children – was guilty of cooperating with him willingly.

“You did not question why you would require a household guard to travel with the King's own party?” she asked.

“In truth, I did not, Your Grace.” he admitted, “though Roger was...has always done things that I don't agree with. But as he was the elder of us, our lord father always took his word more then he did mine own.”

“I see.” Sansa noted. She'd heard the brothers of the House were quarrelsome, always feuding with one another over some petty rivalry. It seemed reasonable that Lord Roger would act in his own interest without informing his own kin of his actions.

She knew that the Ryswells – under Roger and Rickard's late father Rodrik – had been close to House Bolton; Roose Bolton's late wife was a sibling of Rickard's. Still, her and Jon had forgiven other Houses for their support of the flayed men. Jon's mercy to the Umbers and Karstarks had rankled her at the time, but she knew now that he had acted in the best interests of stability for the realm.

“I am satisfied that you were not involved in planning this treachery with your brother.” she concluded, “and I see no reason to punish you for his actions.” Truthfully, she had already spoken with Bran who had assured her that it was Lords Roger and Robett who collaborated with Bloodraven, not their children or grand-children.

It was somewhat satisfying to watch his face grow flush with relief as he processed her declaration. “T-thank you, Your Grace. I can only promise you eternal loyalty now and always.”

As he exited the room, Sansa let out a sigh of relief, rising out of the chair. She wanted to go to the godswood where Bran was; it had only been a day since the events in the hall, but she had already seen the return of the baby brother she remembered.

Jon was already there, and she envied him for being able to skip the monotony she had to endure. Though that would not last long, she smirked. _A King will have to sit in judgment next to me. _

_He'll be thrilled. _

* * *

Jon was surprised at how strong Bran was as he hugged him. It was as though he was unable or unwilling to let go – likely due to the trauma he'd suffered over the past few years. Not being in control of one's own body sounded like a fate worse then death.

“I'm glad you are alright, little brother.” Jon whispered as he knelt down next to him. “You had me worried.”

Bran wiped at his eyes from where he'd been crying. “I finally feel like myself again, able to live as I want to. Not as someone else does while having to watch them do it.”

It felt good to have him back – from the minute Jon had reunited with him he had been cold and emotionless, as though he were simply existing in a cruel medium that he could barely understand.

Even with the news of his greensight, it was still something that he had a hard time comprehending – but with the presence of Bloodraven removed from his mind, he was hopeful that Bran would able to live a full life of his own choosing.

“What...what will you do now?” he asked, “I mean, being King is a huge responsibility. I should know.”

“I still have his memories, his...experiences. It's hard to describe, but I feel more confident in leadership then I would have as just Bran.” Bran smiled, “not to sound arrogant or anything, of course. But I think I will continue as monarch, for now – though being more involved with ruling then he was.”

Jon nodded and rose to his feet, turning to sit upon the rock that sat next to the heart tree. “You have been a good king, from all accounts. Sansa did not lie about that.”

Shaking his head, he scoffed. “I haven't. Not really – not after what I did to you. Were I myself I would have commended you as a bloody hero for stopping Daenerys instead of sending you off to the Wall.” Bran sighed, “I hope you know I am sorry, Jon. Truly.”

Waving him off, Jon laughed. “The past year has been good for me. I found freedom among the Free Folk while being able to serve the Watch at the same time. More then that, I've been able to clear my head and..well, you know how Sansa and I feel about each other.”

“She deserves to be happy.” Bran smiled. “as do you.”

“Are you two talking about me?” Sansa asked as she walked over to them.

Jon shrugged while Bran hugged her tightly.

“Oh, aye. I was telling Bran what an awful person you were.” he said sarcastically, causing Sansa to slap his arm playfully.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I've released your Lorathi spymaster as you asked, Bran.” she said, kissing his forehead. “He seems a slippery sort, though..”

“Lysenno can be, but he was following Bloodraven's commands. He did not plot or plan any of this.” Bran replied with a nod. “He is useful at what he does, though. Even I cannot be everywhere at once – at least, not all at the same time.”

“Have you talked to Meera yet?” Jon asked – and both he and Sansa smiled as Bran blushed.

“Yes. She...she's agreed to come back with us to King's Landing for a visit. I owe her so much...we suffered so much together and Bloodraven never let me even express how much I love her.” he scowled, “the bastard – no offence, Jon – caused me great suffering even as he claimed to want the best for me.”

Sansa made her way to Jon's side, holding his hand as she came to rest beside him on the rock. “I wish Arya was here to see this.”

“She's strong.” Jon added, “no one has returned from going west but I have no doubt she will – and have tons of stories to tell us.”

“No doubt. When she does come back, we will have to reunite.” Bran said, his tone hopeful.

Jon pulled out the letter that he'd received from Howland Reed from a side pocket. “I figured we could..well, I could read this with you both. Given we – you two – are trueborn children of Ned Stark and all.”

Bran's hand touched Jon's own. “So are you. No matter what you may think.”

Jon smiled and broke the wolf seal on the paper and opened it. He began to read aloud.

* * *

> “Hello, Jon.
> 
> If you are reading this letter then it means that some ill has befallen me in King's Landing. Be it death or imprisonment, it means that I am no longer able to travel north to see you as I had originally planned.
> 
> By now Lord Reed will have told you the truth about your mother and father. I can only imagine how you feel in this moment. Angry? Sad? Confused? Hurt? You have the right to feel all of those things and more.
> 
> No one knows the truth about what happened with your parents. But what I do know is that my sister – your mother – pleaded with me as the life left her body that I protect you and keep you safe. It was, and still is, clear to me that she loved you a great deal.
> 
> It has been seventeen years since the day I found you and the day I buried Lyanna. In those years I have watched you grow from a babe to a child to a teen to a man along with the rest of my children, and I can honestly say that you have – and still do – make me as proud as the day I held you in my arms the first time.
> 
> I know your mother will forgive me for what I am about to write, but I see you as my son – now and forever. I do not see you as a secret I must conceal for the sake of my late sister, but as the natural son any man would be proud to have.
> 
> Those words may not be a comfort to you in this time as you feel all of the emotions you must be, but always remember that to me you are a Stark. You have the same blood of the First Men within you as I do.
> 
> I will always consider you my son for the rest of my days. I know that your life has been difficult at times due to your 'base-born' origins, but know that my choice to raise you as my bastard son was done to ensure your safety.
> 
> By now you have taken your vows and have become a man of the Night's Watch, meaning that Robert cannot touch you. This is why I have asked Howland to give you this letter now.
> 
> I wish you nothing but success and all the happiness you can find at Castle Black. I know you will do great things as you have done since you were a boy.
> 
> Always your loving father,
> 
> Eddard Stark
> 
> Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North”

* * *

Jon felt his eyes growing wet as he finished the letter. He reached up and wiped at his face.

“You see?” Bran said, squeezing his hand tighter. “Father loved you as he did us.”

“You are a Stark – like I have been saying.” Sansa smiled, though her voice was full of emotion as though she was going to cry also.

“I know.” Jon finally said after a moment. He carefully folded the letter back up and placed it into the pocket on his jacket. “Thank you, Father.” he whispered.

His face turned into a smile as he saw Ser Davos approaching from the castle.

“Sorry to interrupt.” he said as he approached, offering a bow.

“You are always welcome, Ser Davos. You know that.” Sansa assured him. He was a welcome presence given his unwavering support for both her and Jon since they had come home to Winterfell.

Bran gestured to him. “Davos! I am glad you were able to come here and warn them about what I – well, he – was planning.”

“As am I, Your Grace.” he admitted.

“I plan to be a different King then Bloodraven.” Bran sounded confident as he spoke, “and I want to ask if you are interested in returning to the small council as Master of Ships now that...well, this whole mess has been resolved. I mean to replace some councillors who were all too willing to go along with this insanity.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but if it is alright – the Queen has offered me a position here at Winterfell as one of her advisers.” Davos replied, looking to Sansa with gratitude.

Bran smiled. “She will have gained the service of a good man.”

Jon laughed, grabbing Davos for a hug. “It will be good to have another familiar face around me, old friend. Even though you've got a few new wrinkles then last time we saw one another.”

Sansa laughed while Bran rolled his eyes.

“I'll forgive you for that one.” the Onion Knight quipped.

“Oh, Bran!” Jon exclaimed, turning to look at him, “I told Ser Brienne I was sorry for holding my sword to her throat. She is a fine woman and an excellent choice for your Kingsguard.”

“That she is.” Bran agreed. “She's kept her oath to Mother quite well.”

“So, what's the plan now?” Davos asked. “There's still that...woman...creature thing to deal with.”

“Tomorrow myself, Tormund and Val are riding for Castle Black.” Jon revealed. “We've sent a raven to Commander Mallister asking for his best rangers. From there, we ride for Hardhome to meet with the Free Folk to get their best fighters. Then, we start our hunt for the cold ones and their stronghold.”

Sansa sighed. “I wish you would take some of our garrison with you. Ser Marc can spare at least fifty.”

“No!” Jon insisted, “They still will threaten you and Bran both. Bran has his Sworn Brothers but you two need protection as much as he does.”

Davos scratched his beard. “Do we know where they are located?”

Jon shrugged. “High in the Frostfangs. When she...showed me...what happened with Bloodraven I got a glimpse of where her and her cult live. There is a secret cavern in the pass that leads to the villages.”

“Be sure to take only the best, Jon.” Bran advised, “the cold ones are deadly fighters. Utterly without fear or pity, kind of like the dead they seek to emulate.”

“Charging back into danger – why does it no longer anger or surprise me?” Sansa mused, “I feel a sense of resignation now more then ever.”

“I will return. I have two wonderful reasons to.” he smiled, rubbing her stomach softly. She replied by pulling him in for a kiss.

“Ew.” Bran whispered as he and Davos laughed.

* * *


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this story is still ok, feeling a bit discouraged.

“First, let me apologize for departing so abruptly, Lord Commander.” Jon was easily able to keep pace with Denys Mallister, who walked slow and steady as befitting a man his age.

Around them Castle Black was alive with the sounds of familiar activities; rangers training, stewards rushing this way and that, carrying various boxes or missives to the various buildings and builders taking inventory of their supplies.

“There is no need to apologize, my lord.” the old man waved a hand dismissively, “I knew when you and Ser Tormund had left in such a hurry that the matter was urgent. I just did not know how urgent.”

Tormund laughed. “I always like when you call me ser, crow!”

“Don't let it go to his head. Oh wait, too late.” Val teased.

Jon smiled. “I know my request for fifty rangers may seem a great deal, and I understand if you do not have the men to spare.” He'd sent a bird from Winterfell asking for fifty of the best rangers that were left to be ready to journey with him beyond the Wall.

Ser Denys scoffed again, waving towards the courtyard. “I know Maester Burns was overjoyed when we received your raven! In truth the rangers are just happy to have some activity. There is only so many patrols of the Gift and the haunted forest that a man can take these days.”

Coming to a stop in the middle of the yard, Jon felt a rush of memories returning to him again. He eyed the cage lift and felt his vision swim; his execution of the officers and Olly. His angry denouncement of the Watch. His reunion with Sansa.

“You alright?” Tormund asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Aye.” he nodded, “just...memories.”

Ser Denys was speaking with a brawny man ahead of the trio, who was buckling on a sword belt. After a moment, the pair walked over to them.

“This is Jack Bulwer, who is now First Ranger.” he patted the man's arm. “he insisted upon undertaking this mission with you and the others.”

Jon shook his hand, the man's grip causing some pain in his fingers. “It's an honour to finally meet you, my lord.” he smiled slightly as he spoke, “your story was the stuff of legends at the Shadow Tower.”

“Well, I am no legend, ser.” Jon replied with a shrug. “I am just a man who seeks to do the right thing.”

Bulwer nodded to Mallister. “As per the Lord Commander, I've selected fifty of my best rangers to travel on this expedition, myself included. They are all preparing the sleds for our supplies.”

“Good.” It was a relief for Jon that the rangers were prepared; the trek to Hardhome was still treacherous, even as the snows began to recede and the weather became more mild. “We've our own supplies as well. I propose we set out in the morrow.”

“Agreed.” the big man replied, turning around to the yard. “GET MOVING, YOU SHITS!” he bellowed to a group of men standing around a target dummy, “WE LEAVE AT SUNUP!”

Turning back to Tormund, Jon pointed towards the mess hall. “Care for a meal?”

* * *

The taste of Hobb's boiled mutton – bland and bitter at the same time – was almost welcome to Jon's mouth as it brought a sense of familiarity. He recalled eating the dish day and day out, and constantly wishing for something better.

“I am sure this is different from the high and mighty castle food you are used to, m'lord.” Hobb grumbled as he refilled Tormund's plate, “but we make do here still.”

Jon laughed. “Relax, Hobb. I missed your mutton.”

“Gods help you in that case.” the man muttered as he returned to the kitchens.

Val picked at her dish, looking bewildered. “No wonder you crows were always so angry if this is what you had to look forward to.” she grinned towards him, “I prefer the kneeler's castle food myself.”

“Watch out!” Tormund warned as he shoved another massive portion into his mouth, “she's going native!”

Reaching for his mug, Jon washed down the bitter meat with a mouth of even more bitter ale. It reminded him of the days of his youth – at least, at the Wall – with Pyp, Grenn, Sam and Edd. _Those were simpler times_, he thought.

Still, he could not get caught up in the memories of the past. He had a future to look forward to – a child to be born – and a woman who he loved with all of his heart. More then that, they had to find and defeat a threat that still remained to that future.

“So, baby crow.” Tormund said, chewing nosily. “You an' the wolf queen thought of a name yet?”

“I've barely been able to believe it.” he replied with a shrug, “Me, a father?”

“You had the big wolf!” the wildling replied, “He's kind of like your son.”

Jon snorted, finishing the last of his mug. “I still have Ghost, ass.” he grumbled, “He's just back at Winterfell protecting Sansa.” The wolf had wanted to go with him and Jon knew that; but he did not want to leave Sansa too unguarded, even with her own garrison.

Ghost could be ferocious in ways that a normal man could not.

A door to the hall opened and a group of men entered. Jon ignored them, but out of the corner of his eye he saw them looking to him and mumbling among themselves. _Great,_ he thought. _More 'admirers'_.

One of the group – an aged grey beard who looked somewhat like a more grizzled Tormund – approached the trio. “Beg pardon, but are you Jon Snow?” he asked with a wheezy voice.

“I am.” he nodded.

The man's face brightened. “It's him, lads!” he called to his friends; suddenly, three men seated themselves at the table next to them, including the grey-beard.

“I doubt you remember me, m'lord..” he said, offering Jon a hand. He shook it, somewhat confused. “I was with the Vale men what served with you under Lord Royce. Survived th' army of the dead an' King's Landing, I did.”

“Aye, I was at Winterfell too.” said another of the group. “Starks were bloody heroes, they were! And I saw you, ridin' that dragon like it were nothing.”

Jon sighed, shaking his head sadly. “I am no one to admire, truly.” he replied, “trust me. I am a monster like -”

“Like wot? The Dragon Queen? Piss on her, you stopped her!” the grey-beard said. “You're a bloody fuckin' hero in me eyes.”

“Aye!” the other two men exclaimed.

“You killed her,” said the third man, who was much younger and wore a hideous facial scar across most of his right side. “you helped free the bloody North! I mean, you wos a legend before when you fought against the Boltons. But we'd follow you anywhere, we would!”

“Now ya came to the Wall to follow him!” boomed Tormund with a laugh.

“Nah. We come to the Wall because there wasn't much left for us after all the fightin'.” the second man said. “We did our part an' fought for the North. But – all our families was dead, and we had nothing to go back to.”

“Aye. But what happened to you was wrong!” the grey-beard slammed his fist on the table. “You save the bloody world from a crazy woman with a dragon an' you get sent up here? Bullshite!”

Jon did not respond as the trio bellowed their agreement. He did not feel like a hero, to be sure; he did what he had to do, but was it ultimately right? He knew it was, of course – but there was still that gnawing guilt inside of him. Watching the northern forces rampage through the city, raping and murdering and pillaging – that was not something he could be proud of.

He had bent the knee to Daenerys because he knew that her armies was what was needed to defeat the dead. He'd done it to protect Sansa, to protect his home – he would do it all again in a heart beat. But – he couldn't think like this anymore.

_I will drive myself mad_, he thought. He had spent the last year in exile with the free folk to get away from this kind of warped thinking. He had his home back, he had a purpose again – and he was about to have a son or daughter of his own to hold in his arms.

The freedom that he found in the far North had helped him realize what was important. And while these thoughts did continue to trouble him, he would not allow them to rule his life. Not any more.

* * *

Walking into the yard, Jon spotted a new group of black brothers in the process of training. As he, Tormund, Val and the trio of 'admirers' from the hall came to stop in front of them, felt a tap on the shoulder.

“Lord Snow, 'tis a pleasure to meet you at last. You've had one hell of a journey.” the man said, sticking out his hand. “ah, shite – You've never seen me. Name's Conwy. I serve as a wandering crow, so I'm hardly here at the castle.”

Jon recognized the name from his time as Lord Commander. “Yes, I do recall mentions of you.” he replied, shaking Conwy's hand. “Did you just come back?”

“Aye. Picked up quite a few recruits from King's Landing an' the surrounding hamlets.” he said, nodding to the group who was training in front of them. “Volunteers, too. Lots of 'em lost what they had in the siege and wanted to start over.”

I know that all too well, Jon mused. “Of course.” he mumbled, looking to the new recruits. A few of them spotted his gaze and one of them, a blonde haired boy who looked no older then Arya did came to stand before him.

“You're him, right? Jon Snow.” the man said, eyeing him with a mixture of contempt and disdain. “I was in the Lannister army at King's Landing, when your dragon queen came through an' destroyed everything.”

Jon felt the pain in his heart once more. “I cannot take back what happened -” he began to say before the man spat at his feet.

“Fuck your apologies. What she did was bad; what your northern pigs did was worse. My sister was taken by five or six of you pigs! Her son, only three – dashed against the wall. They laughed as his brains ran down the floor!” the man began to shout, causing Conwy to step in front of him.

“Stow it, Emmet!” he put a hand on the man's chest.

“Shove off, Lannister shit!” said the grey-beard, stepping up next to Jon. His anger was evident. “Don't you talk to Jon Snow that way, he's a bloody hero! Not my fault you followed a crazy fuckin' bitch like Cersei!”

“I'll kill you!” shouted Emmet, trying to rush the grey-beard who dashed forward with surprising speed. Quickly, some of the other rangers restrained the men and tried to pull them apart.

“Enough! Both of you!” shouted Conwy, trying to keep order.

Emmet gestured to Jon. “Now look at the high and mighty Lord Snow!” he said as a few of the other trainees came over to him, “living a life of luxury shoving his prick in that wolf bitch what killed King Joffrey!”

Before Jon could even think he had ripped Longclaw from its scabbard and had tackled Emmet to the dirt, holding the blade over his throat. The other northerners and Vale men were now brawling with Emmet's defenders as rangers and other trainees tried to split everyone apart.

“If you say anything, ANYTHING...about her again...” he seethed, face red from anger. “...My face and this sword will be the last thing you see.”

“Jon! Come on!” Tormund grunted, trying to pull him up. “He's not worth it.”

* * *

He felt the rage leave him as he drew in deep breaths, the frightened look of the man – no, boy – underneath him bringing him back to reality. With his friends' help he rose to his feet, putting the sword away.

“Let's...let's get some sleep.” he mumbled as he walked off, the fighting starting to die down.

Val patted him on the back as they made for the sleeping quarters. “It wasn't your fault, Jon.”

“I should have done more. I should have stopped them...but I couldn't...” he whispered, leaning against one of the railings. “I tried to call them back, to keep order...”

Tormund pulled him into a hug. “Listen! You did what you could, my friend. You're one man tryin' to control hundreds of angry men out for blood. No one can do it, no matter how much ya want to!”

“You gotta live for your wolf queen and your babe.” Val squeezed his hand with a smile – one of genuine sympathy and warmth.

Jon nodded. They would depart in the morning. _Focus on the ranging_, he thought. _Focus on returning home. _

* * *


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy easter to those who celebrate! hope all are staying safe from covid and stuff! I am an essential worker so I have to work sadly

The ranging party arrived at Hardhome a week and a half after departing Castle Black. For Jon, it felt like an eternity – though he was never more relieved to see the wooden walls of the wildling settlement as he was when they arrived.

“There you are!” bellowed the Great Walrus, bounding over to pull him into a tightfisted hug. “we thought you an' the crows got lost or flew away!” he laughed, releasing him and doing the same with Tormund and Val.

“It's good to see you too,” Jon said, catching his breath after the intense hug – coupled with the strong smell of the man. “though I wish we were only here for a good time.”

Gesturing to the First Ranger, Jon extended a hand. “This is Jack Bulwer, First Ranger. Bulwer, this is the Great Walrus, one of the elders of Hardhome.”

Bulwer raised a brow. “I've heard of you.” he nodded, “one of the Ice River leaders, aye? You lot gave us quite a time at the Shadow Tower.”

The Walrus laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “Always good to meet another crow from me neck of the woods as it were! You an' yours are welcome here at Hardhome, of course. We're allies now, something I never thought I'd live t'see!”

“Makes two of us. Though I suppose after the army of the dead, us being friends is not the worst that could happen.” the ranger replied with a grin.

Gesturing to a man behind him, the Walrus pointed to the rangers who were milling about, talking or setting down their tents. Many of them were still somewhat cautious, keeping a hand on their blades as they walked. “Errol! Get the crows settled in. We should go t'the Hall and talk.”

Jon nodded, with Tormund, Val and Jack following the wildling leader towards the hall – which had been built up since his departure. Gone was the half-finished roof and patchy front wall, and in its place was a completed thatched roof and strong wooden support for the wall.

“Has there been any trouble since we left?” Jon asked as they approached.

The Walrus shook his head. “Not a thing. An' that's what worries me. We've sent out patrols this way an' that – even got the cave people to take part – and worked with the crows from Craster's. Not so much as a fuckin' fly out of place.”

“Think they've been busy at Winterfell with all the Starks there at once.” Val said with a shrug, “I mean, they hate you lot more then they do anyone else.”

Jon nodded. The cold ones desired the death of those responsible for the destruction of their gods – that much was clear from his brief meeting with the Night's Queen. He still shivered at the thought of that unnatural woman; when she had shown him what had happened to Bran she had given him a glimpse into her own past incidentally as well.

_A hunter supporting her family. Part of a peaceful village near what was now Barrowtown. Captured and taken by the Children – the pain of ritual was overwhelming, a searing and endless agony of frozen and burning pain. _

He felt pity for her – she had not chosen her fate any more then the Night King had. But they were threats all the same; threats that Jon needed to see defeated so that the north and the free folk would know peace.

So that his and Sansa's child would grow up in a world not wracked by war and conflict.

_Perhaps I can find some peace in the process. _

“We need the fifty best fighters you have.” he explained, gesturing to Jack. “The First Ranger and his men are the most experienced veterans the Watch can spare. I would appreciate – well, we would appreciate – the same.”

“All of my men've survived at least three months beyond the Wall with no support. A few of the older ones have lasted a year or more out here.” he replied.

The Walrus slapped a beefy hand to Jon's arm again. “You'll have whoever we can spare! Though where is it you're looking t'go?”

“I'll explain everything when we get to the hall. I promise.”

* * *

The elders chattered among themselves after Jon explained the purpose of their visit. “...we know that the cold ones and their villages are located in a grotto, somewhere high in the Frostfangs. Which means that we need to fight them on our terms, not their own.”

“If we don't go after 'em now...” Tormund began.

“..they'll come after us.” finished one of the sub-chiefs.

“Exactly.”

Another elder chewed on his lip as he spoke. “Do you really think a hundred men will be enough to fight off how ever many fuckers they've got, King Crow?”

“Despite their numbers, we've castle-forged steel and mail armour.” said the First Ranger, “and we've brought extra arms for the raiders who come with us, also. Consider it a sign of cooperation between the Watch and Hardhome.”

“Mighty kind of ya, lord crow.” the Walrus smiled.

Jon continued. “We know that if nothing is done, they will descend from their grotto and attack Hardhome. While we've done a good job building up the defences in the last year, no amount of walls will keep out hundreds, if not thousands of ravening fanatics. We all know that. They may not be wights, but they fight like rabid dogs.”

“And to fight 'em, we need dogs of our own.” said Val.

“Halleck,” said one of the chiefs, looking down the table to the right. “any of your sister's men still alive? I know she only wanted the best killers as part of 'er mounted raiders.”

"Four or five odd, aye.” the man answered, scratching at his heavily scarred face. “but they've not got their horses any more.”

“Doesn't matter. Who was your sister?” Jon asked out of curiosity.

Halleck smiled. “Harma Dogshead. Maybe you heard of her, lord crow?”

Jon knew at once who he spoke about. She was one of the most infamous of the wildling raiders the Watch had encountered – she lead Mance's vanguard of five hundred mounted warriors, and hated dogs so much she used a dead one as a banner.

“I thought she was dead.” he added.

“She is. The fire king took her head off years ago.” Halleck shrugged. “Eh, I never liked her anyway. But she were a tough one.”

Jack looked to Jon and back to the elders. “He's not lying. Only the most vicious killers fought with her. If any of them are here, we need them no question.”

Looking up and down the table, the Walrus stood up slowly, his chin jiggling with the effort. “I think we're all in agreement, King Crow. We'll put out th' call and gather up the meanest fuckers we've got left.” He slammed a hand on the table, “with them at your back, these cold ones'll be shitting out icicles in no time!”

As the elders shuffled out of the hall, Tormund turned to Jon and grinned. “Come with me. Walrus told me about something you gotta see!”

_I'm going to regret this, aren't I? _

* * *

The two ice spiders chittered wildly as they ran around the pen, their dinner already a bloody mess before them.

Jon whistled. “I see the eggs hatched.” He was amazed; the first ice spiders seen, at least in anything more then legends – and it was he, Tormund and Val who brought them here. They were still small, about the size of a house cat, but in time they would as large and fierce as their parents were.

“Aye, about a month after you left.” said Galo, who was the chief kennel master for the village – and now chief spider-master. “They were bitey and tough to get wrangled into the new pen, but we got 'em just fine.”

“Are they trained?” Val asked, her eyes following them back and forth.

“Well, sorta.” Galo shrugged. “They're not as aggressive with me as before, an' they even let some of the others pat their heads. But if you're too swift around em they get scared and lash out. But I think in time we'll have 'em trained up like the dogs are!”

Jon watched as one of the beasts looked up at him with its six eyes. It chittered and raised its two front legs into the air, as though reaching towards him.

“He likes ya.” the spider-master laughed.

“What will you do with them?”

Galo tapped his chin. “I think we can use 'em as guards for the village once they're big enough. Nothin' too aggressive, but to help with the dogs and patrols to keep out any big animals – bears, shadow-cats and the like. Saw a shadow-cat just last week lurking around the western wall.”

Jon patted the man on the back. “Good work, Galo. I mean it.”

“My thanks, King Crow. But hey, you brought 'em back!”

* * *

As they walked away from the pen, Tormund gestured towards the rest of the village. Jon saw more houses starting to take shape, with half-completed buildings starting to sprout up all around near the water. He smiled proudly; this was a free city of free people, and he had helped in his own way to bring them back here.

His year of freedom was blissful; no worries about titles or blood or noble houses. It had helped him to clear his head in a way that he would not have been able to had he been forced into ruling the Seven Kingdoms.

But of course, his place was back in Winterfell with Sansa. That was home – though this would be a place he would visit as much as he could, of course. “Maybe we can come here after the babe is born..” he mumbled.

“Now you're thinking, my little crow!” Tormund beamed, slapping him on the shoulder.

Val groaned, gesturing towards a house near one of the half-built watchtowers. “Come on, Brida is waiting for us, ya shit.”

Jon grinned as Tormund pulled him towards the house. Always a joy to see his daughters again.

_Maybe if our babe is a girl, she'll be like Brida. _

* * *


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to sansa doing ruler things! 
> 
> for the record the houses that are mentioned are canon, you can find them here: 
> 
> crowl: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Crowl
> 
> magnar: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Magnar
> 
> stane: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Stane
> 
> the lord names are made up obviously but the houses are real I promise! the Skagosi are basically thought of as one step above wildlings, and are very isolationist and secretive 
> 
> back to jon next chapter me thinks

Sansa accepted the blade from the guard and drew it, holding it standing on its point as her father often did. She had never been allowed to attend executions when he went out to behead criminals or deserters from the Watch, but she'd heard enough stories from Jon and the older residents of the winter town to know.

“In the name of House Stark of the North, I – Sansa of the House Stark, First of my Name, Queen of the North, sentence you to die.” she announced as Lord Robett Glover was placed on the block.

It was a morbid thing to hold a blade and use it to end a life, but she knew that the northern mantra held true – she had sentenced him to death for his treason in aiding Bloodraven – and thus it was her duty to carry out the sentence.

She'd been practising with Ser Marc on how to properly swing a great sword for this sort of thing, and despite many offers from her garrison to perform the execution, she would follow the example of the North as it had always been. _The man who passes the sentence swings the sword. _

Drawing a deep breath she lifted the blade, which was still somewhat heavy. Yet she would not look weak in front of her garrison and small folk who were in attendance. She recalled her lessons with Ser Marc, who had given her one key piece of advice – always look where you want the blade to go.

She eyed the spot where Glover's neck met his body as she swung, putting all of her might into the action so as to give him a quick death. The blow sliced through flesh and muscle, but did not take the head off fully. Blood spewed from the wound this way and that as the man convulsed violently.

Quickly she swung once more, the second blow bringing his body to a still. It took one more blow from the sword for his head to fall to the ground, his eyes gazing lifelessly up towards the sky.

Replacing the blade into its scabbard, she looked to the crowd. “Let it be known that the sentence was carried out. Such is the fate for those who betray the realm and its people!” _More then once_, she thought bitterly. 

“Long live the Queen!” shouted Commander Snow.

The crowd took up the chant as she walked down from the platform, blood now staining her dress and hands. As she walked towards the keep she saw her hands trembling with every movement; she had never directly taken a life before, and it felt – nauseating.

Even Ramsay's death – fed to his own hounds, something that brought a smile to her face – did not compare to actually being the one to behead a man. Yet, it was something she had to get used to if she was to be a Queen; the North did not use headmen.

* * *

After a quick change of clothes, she was back in the Great Hall seated upon her throne as she awaited the arrival of the lords of Skagos.

It was somewhat of a surprise to her and the rest of her council that they had even bothered to respond; the Skagosi were not known for their loyalty to the North; they were an isolationist people who it was rumoured practices rites of human sacrifice and cannibalism.

Still, they had sworn fealty to Winterfell and – until proven otherwise – were her subjects. She had sent ravens to their lords despite the skepticism she felt, as did her councillors. The rest of the north had sworn its loyalty to the new monarch, but they were yet to do so.

“When the Skagosi arrive, Your Grace – I do not expect they will be happy to be here. They may view it as an insult to have been 'summoned' to Winterfell.” said her newest advisor. Lord William Mazin had long supported her – going back to when he gave her the last of his family's soldiers to defeat Ramsay – and had gratefully accepted a role as one of her advisors to replace Lord Ryswell.

“Yes, but even still – we must take stock of them. They are part of the North and I hope they will understand why I require their fealty.” she said. A divided realm could not stand.

The young lord nodded, leaning on his cane. “We know so little about them, but what we do know is that they only grudgingly owe fealty to the North. They revolted once during the reign of one of the Targaryen kings – the rebellion was put down but it cost thousands of lives.”

Sansa took a moment before responding. “If they wish to remain defiant, I will hear it in person. I do not wish to plunge us into another war – especially not now. Perhaps the Skagosi lords will feel the same. We've still the Cold Ones to deal with.”

The thought of Jon made her cheeks flush. She held a hand to her stomach once more; there was only a very slight bump now starting to show, but she could feel their child growing within her every day even if still early in her pregnancy.

She gestured to Maester Wolkan, standing faithfully behind her to the left. “Has there been word from Castle Black?”

“In fact, yes, Your Grace.” the man responded, holding out a scroll. “Lord Commander Mallister says that Lord Jon and the ranging party departed for Hardhome one week ago.”

_Good. Come home to me, soon. _ “Good. Keep me informed when they return.” she said, taking the scroll and placing it gently on the arm of her chair. 

“Your Grace!” called out Commander Snow as he entered the hall, bowing as he did so. “The Skagosi are here and ready to be presented.” 

Sansa took a deep breath, readying herself for the task ahead. Lords of all types comprised the North; many of them prickly and harsh, who scoffed at the idea of taking their commands from a woman. She could not back down, even in the face of Skagosi arrogance. 

“Send them in.” she nodded.

* * *

Her herald took his place at the doors to the Hall. “Presenting the Lords of Skagos, Your Grace! Hagen of House Magnar, Lord of Kingshouse.” 

Sansa watched as the first lord made his way into the hall. Lord Hagen was tall and powerfully built, with a weathered and scarred face. He wore simple furs and green war paint covered his eyes. His garb made him look half a wildling, save for the brooch that held his cloak together; it was the sigil of his House, a green lobster holding a harpoon in its claws. 

He offered a curt nod and stood off to the side. 

“Next, Osha of House Crowl, Lady of Deepdown!” announced the herald. 

A shorter woman entered the hall, her curled black hair swaying as she offered a nod of her own. She wore a dress of beige, which appeared to be patched and battle-worn. Much like Lord Hagen, her eyes were covered in war paint; only hers was a mixture of red and black.  _Crowl,_ she thought.  _Their colours were red and black. _

“Finally, Osric of the House Stane, Lord of Driftwood Hall!”

The last man to enter was much older then the other two, his face covered by a thick grey beard. His furs were much thicker and patchy, also; Sansa noted right away that he appeared far more downcast then his companions. His war paint was a faded brown and green mix, a far cry from the fresh coats of his fellow lords.

_Stane,_ Sansa thought. _Sigil, a brown driftwood tree on a green background. _She spotted the sigil sewn into his tunic and felt somewhat more confident.

“You stand in the presence of Lady Sansa of the House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the North and Protectress of the Realm!” the herald turned towards the trio.

Sansa felt the trio eyeing her carefully. She rose up from her seat and moved down towards them. “Welcome to Winterfell, my lords of Skagos.” she offered, keeping her tone hard but not angry. “I am grateful for your acceptance of my ravens to travel here.”

“We greet you, Lady Stark.” Lord Hagen said, his voice as powerful as his build.

“You are speaking to the Queen. Her title is 'Your Grace'.” Commander Snow grumbled from his place next to the herald.

“She is not my queen.” the Lord of Kingshouse replied.

Sansa sighed inwardly. It was to be expected, of course. “I invited you all here to discuss that exactly. As you may be aware, the North is now a free kingdom, no longer shackled to the whims of King's Landing in the south. We are our own nation once again.”

“Word has reached us.” replied Lady Osha. “We stoneborn are not as isolated as you mainlanders think.”

“Of course.” Sansa eyed the trio more carefully. “I have asked you here because we must decide the future of Skagos. For thousands of years your land has been part of the North since the days of the old Kings of Winter.”

“Not by choice.” said Lord Hagen, his tone now much colder and judgmental. “The mainlanders grew jealous of our sea power, the skalds say. One of your Brandons came with his armies and forced our obedience. Destroyed our ships.”

Sansa allowed herself a nod. “Even still, your loyalty has been to House Stark for generations. Yet times have changed, it is true – our land has gone through a great series of trials and suffering in the past few years. I would expect that things are the same on your island as they are here.”

“We did fealty to your father and to your brother, the famed 'King who Lost the North'.” Lady Osha scoffed, “out of respect for mine own father as much as yours. Yet they are both dead and in their place is you; a woman we know little about. Why should we follow you?”

“I would wager that you only accepted my invitation because you need us.” she replied with a smile.

That stirred Lord Osric, who up until then had been silent. He turned his gaze to his fellows. “You know why we are here. Do not play games of pride!” he barked.

“Be silent, old man.” barked Lord Hagen.

The old lord barked something in the Skagosi tongue, which was a guttural and harsh sounding jumble of words. “We are willing to speak with you, Lady Stark – but my bones are old and this journey was harsh. May we speak somewhere in private?”

Sansa nodded, gesturing towards a side door. “My council chambers are unoccupied. We may have discussion freely there.”

Lord Hagen offered an obviously false smile as he followed Commander Snow. Once they were in the room, Sansa sighed to herself.

“This is going about as well as I can expect.” she mumbled, preparing to follow them. Still, this was something that must be done for the sake of the realm; she could not afford to have the Skagosi attempting to defy Winterfell, not after so many generations of fealty.

She would solve this, one way or another.

* * *


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and COVID-19 free!!

The sounds of comradeship – drinking, laughing, toasting – filled Jon's ears as he waited for his tent to fill up. The camps had been set; the Night's Watch rangers and the Free Folk now mingling among themselves as old friends – it was like they had not been blood enemies for thousands of years.

It was amazing to him what an army of the dead would do; it could turn an enemy into a friend in an instant. _Or a friend to an enemy,_ he thought sadly as his mind watched Olly swing once again.

“The camps are all tied down.” announced the First Ranger as he entered the tent, completing the companions Jon needed to see. Around him sat Tormund, Val, Bulwer and Errok, the wildling raider in command of the free folk's fifty men.

Jon nodded. “Good. Well, we've made it to the Frostfangs.” he chuckled, drawing laughs from the others.

It had been a treacherous two weeks from Hardhome as the group of one hundred pushed themselves onward, but they had finally made it up the first passes of the mountains. With no harsh winter weather to impede them, going was remarkably easy.

Tormund patted him on the shoulder and asked, “So, what's the plan now?”

“From what I saw of their grotto, the mouth of the cave entrance is located near a stream.” he ssaid. The vision from the Night's Queen was still fresh in his mind, and he had remembered to write down as many details as he could after their “conversation”.

“So, we have to start ranging.” said Bulwer with a grin.

Jon held up a hand. “No. Not all of us. We're much too large a party – it would take far too long for all of us to climb and comb. They would find us long before we found them. We need to take a smaller party to locate the cave – five, perhaps six men – and then signal the others to follow.”

“Isn't that a little risky?” asked Errok. “If they find five of us and they're a hundred or more, we're fucked no matter what kind of castle steel we have.”

It was a risk, Jon knew. But what was the alternative? “I have a feeling they are not interested in patrolling this part of the mountain. Their cave, yes – and we will need to tread carefully, but the mountain is clear of their followers.”

“Let's get huntin', then.” Val smirked. “Who do you want?”

Jon thought a moment. “Ser Jack, who is the best tracker and hunter you have? We need the best person, no question. Do you have someone like that with you?”

“I do, in fact.” the First Ranger smiled. “Let me go fetch him.”

Sighing, Jon ran a hand through his hair. The sooner this was done, the better. “I wish there were a peaceful solution.” he said out loud, to no one in particular. _I'm tired of fighting! It's all I've done since I left home. _

The words he said to Sansa were almost prophetic, looking back on them.

_...but you, Lord Snow. You'll be fighting their battles forever. _

“Aye, but there isn't.” Val patted him on the shoulder. “That...thing and her fanatics won't leave any of us be.”

Jon nodded, his mind already a thousand leagues away. “Seems you were right, Ser Alliser.” he chuckled.

“Huh?” Tormund looked confused.

Snapping back to the present, Jon felt himself redden with embarrassment. “Something Ser Alliser said to me before I executed him. It has been in my mind ever since – because part of me knows he was correct.

He said 'you, Lord Snow – you'll be fighting their battles forever.' “

“He was one of them pricks what stabbed you, right?” Errok shrugged, “so who gives a flying arse nugget about what he thought.”

“Even still,” he laughed with the others, “I look forward to finishing this. Laying down my sword for good. You know? Passing it on to my son...or daughter. Spending time at...at home with Sansa.”

“Well, if we don't get some sleep we'll be laying down our swords for good that's for sure.” Tormund snorted, laying himself down on his sleeping roll.

At that moment, the First Ranger returned with a short, bald man trailing right behind him. “This is Jash,” he patted the man as he knelt down on the floor. “He's the best tracker that the Shadow Tower knew. He once tracked a band of mounted wildlings using nothing but the dirt from their horses' hooves.”

Jash shrugged. “T'was nothing, m'lord.” His voice was low and gruff, as though he were constantly clearing his throat.

Jon nodded. “You'll be coming with us, Jash. We need to track down the entrance to the grotto where the cold ones live.”

“Aye, m'lord. Won't be nothin' to find em.” he grinned.

“It's settled then.” Jon looked to each man. “We set out at first light. We will need something to mark our paths, so we do not get lost.”

Bulwer raised a hand. “Got that covered, Lord Snow. Took some pretty thick branches with us from Castle Black. Been carving them into markers for us. Tie 'em down with string to some rocks and we should have no issue.”

“Good. Let's get some sleep.”

* * *

His dreams were still jumbled and terrible. One moment, he saw Sansa holding a bundle in her arms, looking as beautiful and as radiant as she always did.

The next, both of them crumbled to ash before his eyes. He rushed forward, burying his hands in the still-smoking remains. The pile was endless as he dug deeper and deeper; why? He knew they were dead, but he had to keep looking.

Growing hotter and hotter as he dug, the ground turned to red rivulets of lava as he opened a fissure in the earth. From there, he saw the maw of a dragon – one larger then anything he had ever seen. No comparison was possible, as it dwarfed even the krakens rumoured to roam the seas.

It closed down upon him and he saw oblivion.

* * *

Jon woke slowly, gasping softly as he opened his eyes. By the looks of the darkness around him, it was still before dawn. At his side, Tormund slept soundly as he snorted and grunted, tossing and turning wildly as he always did.

As he sat up, he saw that Val had beaten him to it and was sitting up herself. She gestured to the tent flap and started for the outside. Having nothing else to do – there was no way he could return to sleep now – he followed.

The night air hit his face with a rush, the cold of the Frostfangs still potent if not as frigid as it had been his first time here.

The tents around them were all silent, as the rangers and free folk slept. He heard various snorts and snores faintly on the wind, but he ignored them as the pair made their way to the edge of camp.

“Didn't want to wake Tormund.” she said as they came to a stop overlooking a small trail leading back down the mountain. She turned to face him, offering a smile. “Can't sleep either, I see.”

Jon shook his head. “No. My – my dreams are always troubled these days.”

“So I noticed when we were further north.” Val pulled out a bit of jerky from her jacket and bit into it, chewing softly. “Maybe it would do you good t'talk about it. I find that helps me when I have nightmares.”

“What is there to say?” Jon sighed, “they always involve dragons and death. Almost everything I dream ends that particular way. I thought they were gone when we made it to Winterfell, when Sansa and I – you know – but now that I am out here it is like they have always been with me.”

She nodded, saying nothing a moment as she finished the jerky. “The more you keep moving on, the more it will get easier. I know that I've not endured half of what you have – but I've my own demons, Lord Snow.” she admitted. “There are nights I've woke screaming. Tormund can tell you about it.”

“You?” Jon was taken aback. She was a fierce and brave woman, who did not flinch from anything.

That drew a laugh from her. “No lie.” Val's eyes glanced down at the snow and he saw discomfort in her face. “Was one of my first raids when I was younger. My father and his band went after a scouting party of crow rangers that got too close to our village.”

She exhaled slowly. “Now, I'd killed animals before, but never people. My first...it were a boy, maybe about your brother's age. Crows are crows, aye, but the way he was weeping as he died...he cried out for his mama as the blood left his body..”

“I still see him in my dreams. Only his face – it's full of maggots. His bones are showing an' he starts throttling me. Sucking the life from my body. It's...it's awful.” she shuddered, as though reliving the memory again.

Jon reached out and gently wrapped his arms around her. She did not pull away. “You're safe, Val.” he assured her.

“I know.” she mumbled, “but it still gets to me even now. Been what, almost twelve years now. But my point is, Jon – that we all have our demons and our hardships. You, me, Tormund, everyone. Look at the shit the wolf queen went through – she suffered abuse from all sorts of cunts, both in the mind and body. But we keep goin', all of us. Even if it hurts.”

He nodded. It was a truth that he tried to accept, especially now with Sansa back in his life in such a meaningful way. “I am trying to focus on being a father, on how to prepare for such a responsibility..”

“But you keep comin' back to the dragon and death. You might have those dreams for years. But even if ya do, you cannot let them control your life. You have to live, for you, and Sansa and your babe.” Val smiled, hugging him back. “You've a family who loves you. Friends who love you. Hell, a whole city what worships you!”

“Not what I wanted.” Jon laughed. “The worship part, I mean.”

_Put the others out of your mind,_ he thought. It was no good hanging on to bitterness the rest of his life, imagining what could have been. He did not have to think about people like Tyrion or Daenerys or Sam or any of them.

_I have to live for Sansa and the babe_, Jon knew. Why was he having to constantly remind himself of this? “I suppose I have lived with the guilt so long that it has become part of me,” he admitted out loud. “when we're finished here, I can devote myself to what matters. Sansa wants to crown me as King in the North to rule at her side, so I will have that to look forward to.”

“Don't expect me to kneel, Your Kingship.” Val winked.

“Never would think it.” Jon said mockingly. Turning his gaze back towards camp he saw the first camp fires starting to ignite. “Want to get some food?”

Val nodded. “Anythin's better then frozen jerky. Even that Hobb's gods awful stew.”

“Try eating it for more then a day.” Jon grinned as the two of them made for the nearest campfire. As they walked, Jon looked to the twinkling sky. _I will be home soon, Sansa. I promise. _

* * *

She placed a hand on the chest, making no move to open it.

A flood of memories came back to her as she recalled the last time that the contents had been used. _The siege of the Nightfort when he sent me away_. Her beloved had insisted on her leaving the castle with her brothers as the kingdom – their kingdom – crumbled around them.

It was the ultimate outcome, her brothers had told her, but it still made her angry all the same. The fusion of humanity back into her form had allowed these feelings to return; ones long purged from what body she had. Her brothers were not so lucky; they were the weapons of winter, and understood nothing but the desire to grow and fulfill their creator's commands.

“Divine One!” called Ovir as he entered the room, bowing as low as the priest possibly could.

“Aegon Targaryen and his hunters come.” she said, knowing the truth from her scrying.

He nodded. “Our warriors arm and prepare themselves as we speak. The southerners will not harm you, Divine One. We will give our lives for you as we always have.”

Opening the chest she glanced at the sword of ice, still as frozen and cold as it had been the day she had placed it here. The aura was that of winter, and the room quickly began to freeze at the mere presence of the weapon.

“I require mine armour, Ovir.” she commanded, turning to face him.

The priest shook his head. “Divine One, you needn't fight. We shall destroy these heretics including the dragon warrior you speak of. They are few in number.”

“The scryings revealed that I am to face him. It is how the visions must play out.” Her visions were much simpler now with Bloodraven gone; the young Brandon Stark whose body he had taken had no interest in attempting to interfere with her – though he had a significant power in the art of the sight, it was raw and untrained even still.

“I...I will summon the blue hands to ready your armour, Divine One.” Ovir bowed again and departed the room.

It was an inevitable confrontation. Perhaps...perhaps it would allow her to rest at last. She longed to see her beloved again; his brown eyes and black hair whispering sweet words into her ear. She was annoyed at her inability to blush, having lost it long ago when she was 'blessed' with this new form.

Still, it did no good to speculate. “Mayhaps I will see you soon, Brandon.” she grasped her necklace and pressed it to her fingers, whispering softly. With her free hand she closed the chest, the ice dissipating from the walls and floor of the room.

_Let us see how mine skill with arms is after all this time. _

* * *


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, will try to pump out the last final chapters soon!!

“Your Grace, these talks are going no where.” sighed Ser Edwyle, “as we have seen, it appears that the lords of Skagos are only here to posture and jape, not to truly seek peace with the North.”

Sansa nodded, a hand brushing her hair back behind her. It had been three days of fruitless talks thus far between herself and the Skagosi; they were better at holding old grudges worse then the Freys or Lannisters ever were. Every time she thought they had made some kind of head way, the conversation would usually be shifted back around to “horrors of the past inflicted on the Stoneborn” as Lord Hagen was so fond of pointing out.

“Who knew that they still held such hate for acts that happened thousands of years ago,” she grumbled, “The last King in the North that subdued them was Brandon IX, and even Maester Wolkan is unsure of what time period he lived.”

She understood the pride that the islanders showed; it was the same pride and independence that had driven the North to finally gain its freedom. Yet there was a fine line to walk with these lords; were she seen as weak it would only encourage other vassals who doubted her ability to rule.

“Then...how shall we proceed, Your Grace?” asked Lord William from her right. “Another set of talks will only lead to the same thing as the last ones.”

Tapping her fingers on the arms of her throne, Sansa knew she would need to approach this in a more unofficial way. “As I see it, Lord Hagen is the most boisterous and demanding of the three. He talks over and shouts down the others when they try to raise a point he does not agree with.”

“House Magnar is considered the largest of the Skagosi in terms of fighters, so perhaps he is trying to cow them with strength?” suggested Ser Marc.

“We need to find out what truly ails them. We know that something has driven them to accept my invitation – even arrogant men would not leave the safety of their island home to come to what they view as hostile territory.” Sansa had already deduced that they were hiding something; what it was they would not say. _Or could not say in the presence of Lord Hagen,_ she mused.

“I agree, it does seem...queer that they would travel all this way just to mock.” nodded Lord William, “but they will never speak plain to us, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps not.” she agreed, resting a hand on her stomach. It was something Sansa tried to avoid doing, given that it caused her an undue amount of stress – it made her think of Jon, beyond the Wall and out of reach. Was he alive or dead? Would she have someone coming back to her? They were all questions she did not know how to answer – or want to think of, at this moment.

Of course, she always prayed for his safe return and kept the hope alive in her heart. But sometimes she would find her mind wandering, thinking of their child growing up without his or her father and it scared her. Sansa did not want the horrors of her life to be ones that her babe had to endure, as well.

“Where are they now?” she asked her council.

“I believe Lady Crowl mentioned she was going to the godswood to pray, while Lord Hagen retired to his chambers and Lord Stane went in search of a drink.” said Ser Edwyle.

Sansa got to her feet. “I believe I will go to the godswood myself. Perhaps I can speak with Lady Crowl there – free of any other influence. That, and I wish to pray.”

“Is there trouble, Your Grace?” asked Ser Marc, looking concerned. Her lords knew of her pregnancy, as Sansa had reasoned they would know when she began to show; it was no good to keep it a secret.

“No, I am fine.” she assured him with a smile. “Thank you, my lord, for your concern however.”

Dismissing her council Sansa made for the godswood with as much haste as she could.

* * *

“Do you mind if I pray with you?” Sansa found Lady Crowl staring at the heart tree, her mood clearly dour and sullen. She approached carefully, the lady's guard eyeing her suspiciously.

“It is your heart tree, Lady Stark.” Lady Osha looked to her and offered a weak nod. Sansa could tell that the woman had been crying; her eye-paint was streaked down her cheeks despite her attempts at wiping it away.

Sansa stood next to her, offering a silent prayer for Jon and his expedition beyond the Wall. That he would return safe and sound, and that they would be able to raise their child in a North free of chaos and strife.

“Deepdown's heart tree is much angrier.” observed Lady Crowl. “A testament to our resolve, I would suppose.”

“It certainly is on display here and now, my lady.” Sansa replied carefully.

That drew a laugh. “We Stoneborn are a proud people, Lady Stark – in case you had not noticed.”

“I agree.” Sansa observed, “but you would not have come here simply to jape and jest, did you? It does not seem wise for even the proudest of lords to leave one's island home and travel to a place they dislike with only a small guard.”

“Very perceptive.” Lady Osha turned her head to face Sansa. “Hagen refuses to speak of it – he is a fool despite what I have said. He thinks Kingshouse and its warriors means he will dictate the reasons for our travel. Well, I do not bend my knee to him.”

Sansa was getting somewhere. She thought carefully before replying. “And what is the reason for your travel, my lady? Winterfell cannot simply run in circles forever – as Queen I must ensure the safety and stability of my people and my home.”

“Leave us.” Osha barked to her guard, who bowed and withdrew to the entrance to the godswood. She sighed, shaking her head. “Were this not necessary, I would not speak. Do you understand?”

Nodding, Sansa gestured for her to continue.

Sitting down on the large rock at the side of the heart tree, the Skagosi lady folded her arms over her chest. “Skagos is dying. It is as simple as that.”

Sansa felt alarm creeping up her mind. “In what sense?”

“In all senses.” Osha chuckled, “Our fishing boats go out further and further from shore and bring back less and less fish. The fish they do bring back are twisted and deformed. Our crops wilt and die despite our best efforts.”

“I emptied my granaries to feed all of my people through the winter. We have no reserves of food now. I sent out hunters but the game is fewer and fewer as well.”

“What causes this?” she asked.

“We do not know. But what I do know is that it occurs across all of the island. Hagen and his people are nearly out of grain, too – but he will never admit it. It began around the time of your brother's war, I would say. We thought it was just a bad year, that the ancestors had overlooked us. But every message I sent to Kingshouse and Driftwood said that they suffered the same thing.” Lady Crowl looked grim, her gaze unable to meet Sansa's. “My people are starving and I cannot help them. Babes are dying at their mother's breasts.”

Sansa felt a twinge of sympathy for her. It explained why they were here; why they travelled all this way – though it seemed Lord Magnar was unable to put aside his pride to admit the dire situation that the island faced. “This is a difficult situation for you. I can only imagine.”

“Difficult? Yes, it is.” she scoffed, “as I said I would not be here if our land was as it was. But...yes. I watch as once proud men wilt and die from hunger. Even our unicorns are in threat of being killed by the hungry – my warrior riders will not allow such a thing, but they are few in number.”

“Then we should come to a solution that will provide aid for Skagos at once.” Sansa offered.

Lady Osha chuckled darkly. “I assume that in exchange you wish us to bend our knees to Winterfell once more.”

“Is that such a daunting prospect, my lady?” she asked, “I have no desire to control all aspects of my vassal's lives. You will be free to rule your lands as you see fit, so long as you do me fealty and send tax incomes to Winterfell. We are a free kingdom now, and I intend to stay that way. But we cannot be free if we are divided. Skagos is part of the North – and we need one another to survive as we have for thousands of years.”

“Pretty words.”

Sansa shook her head. “I am not merely offering words. Food is in ample supply here in the North – and I will see to it that Skagos receives enough food to feed all of its people. In addition, I am sure we can find some way to ensure you are able to grow healthy crops again. While there is nothing to be done for the waters, we can send farming supplies and live stock to see to your land.”

“Your proposal is...sound, my lady.” Sansa could see Lady Osha's face softening from its hard and withered gaze, “but I do not believe certain...others will be as open to the idea as I am.”

“Lord Magnar, you mean.” she nodded.

Scowling, Lady Osha continued. “He tries to bully myself and Stane into following his position. Yet I know Kingshouse starves as much as my people do. Their larders are all but empty, Hagen himself has told me.”

Sansa had to restrain herself from laughing. She thought forlornly of her own situation; when she had stood strong against Daenerys and her demands for fealty. Though, she was a far different ruler then the Dragon Queen had thought herself to be.

“Then I believe it is in Skagos's best interest as a whole to accept our offer. I only wish to help, my lady – it is as simple as that. No deception or lies. No tricks or mummery. A desire to help a part of a free and independent North.”

Lady Osha sighed, a look of defeat on her face. “I just...want to protect my people. My sons. It's what's most important, my lord father always said before he died.”

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Sansa smiled. Even as far away as Skagos, the men and women of the North lived by the same values – no matter what rumours and tall tales said about them. “Then let us protect them, together.”

* * *

As expected, Lord Hagen was not at all impressed. “So you managed to convince this one,” he scoffed, gesturing contemptuously towards Osha, “to speak plain to you. Women are the more frail of the sexes, my lady. It is only obvious that she would beg like a mainlander.”

“Call me that again and I promise you'll see who the frail sex is.” scowled Lady Osha, drawing her dagger swiftly.

Sansa was ready to intervene, but the Lord of Kingshouse only laughed. “You do not scare me, girl. Now put your child's blade away before you hurt yourself.” He turned his eyes back to Sansa, the brown orbs glaring into her with every second.

“So, I beg like a simpering fool and you give my people food. What a bargain.” he mocked.

“Would you rather your people starve and die from empty bellies and disease that cannot be treated due to your pride, my lord?” Sansa asked, doing her best to keep the fury inside her in check. She was used to men's belittling insults and the drivel this one spewed was nothing new. However, she still needed Kingshouse on her side – else the only thing left would be an invasion of Skagos.

Slamming his fist down on the table, Lord Hagen smirked. “You speak bold words, my lady. But the people of Kingshouse have stood strong through many storms over the millennium. We stood when your Kings of Winter slaughtered our children, raped our women and put our homes to the torch. We stood when the inbred dragon kings came and went. And we will stand against this adversity just the same.”

“Skagos had food. It's waters were plentiful and your crops healthy then.” she countered. “Now, the situation I understand is dire. Yet we are offering a solution that will benefit everyone – and allow your people to rebuild after losing so much so fast.”

“We do not need charity.” he scowled.

Lady Osha drove her dagger into the table. She rounded upon the larger man, her anger palpable from where she stood. “This is not charity, you bloody fool! You told me Kingshouse's supplies would last three months at best. Are you so stupid as to turn away a valued offer that could SAVE the lives of Skagos?! Perhaps you are as great a _eldhúsfífl _as I have long believed!”

“Fool, am I?!” Lord Magnar roared, drawing his blade. Within seconds, Sansa's guards had surrounded him and his escort, their own blades already at the ready.

Slowly, he reluctantly placed his blade back into its scabbard. His eyes now focused on Sansa. “If you wish to settle this and show you are a true queen to follow, then prove it. Select a champion to face me in combat. Should he win, I will agree to your proposal. Will you prove your strength and the strength of your people, Lady Stark? Or will you be an _ergi_ like most main-landers?”

“The Skagosi word for 'coward'.” whispered Lady Osha.

Sansa nodded. Her face grew hard as she seethed inside, the anger and frustration mounting at this great fool of a man. “I accept your offer. And when my champion forces you to yield, I expect you to kneel and accept your defeat as a true man of the North.”

“I shall.” he smirked, starting for the door. “We shall meet in one hour's time in your courtyard.”

After he left, Sansa turned to her guard. “I will not ask any of you to volunteer to fight, but -”

Commander Snow stepped quickly in front of her. “I volunteer, Your Grace.” he said with a nod. “The man disrespects you and House Stark with his words. I do not shirk from a fight with one as contemptuous as he.”

She wished Jon were here. He would easily defeat Lord Magnar, without any question. He had fought against foes great and small, and was still considered one of the best swordsmen in the whole North by the people. Yet he was not, and while Commander Raymon was no Jon, he was still a skilled and experienced warrior.

“I accept your offer, Commander. I trust you will show Lord Magnar that we 'mainlanders' are not so easily cowed as he wishes we are.”

* * *

Commander Snow tackled the huge Lord Magnar as he rushed forward, pinning him to the ground. The Skagosi responded with a powerful punch that knocked him off, sending both men panting onto the ground. Covered in blood and their weapons cast aside and forgotten, this fight had taken up more then twenty minutes thus far and neither man seemed ready to quit.

Sansa admired the endurance of both Commander Snow and his opponent. Lord Magnar was not a man to be trifled with, she knew. He had the strength to back up his bluster and was not afraid to launch himself with a ferocity she had only seen during pitched combat before.

It made her think of Jon and his battle rage in regards to Ramsay. Where she had come upon him beating the life from her former husband and tormentor, and the satisfaction she felt at him doing it. Yet he had yielded Ramsay's life to her, and she had ensured his suffering for the crimes he'd committed against both her people and herself.

This was a different situation, however. This was a single challenge, not a war. She did not desire to send the men of the North to fight fellow Northerners because of disagreements of fealty.

“You fight well, little guard.” wheezed Lord Magnar as he got to his feet and spat out a mouthful of blood. “But you tire. Will you yield?”

“Not at all.” spat Commander Snow.

“Your Grace,” whispered Lord William from her side, “I do not know how much more Commander Snow can handle. Lord Magnar is...a powerful force on the field of battle.”

Sansa nodded. “Do not lose hope. He tires just as much as the Commander.” It was obvious from his stance and his halting speech that the Skagosi was feeling the pain and fatigue of the fight as much as his opponent.

As the pair laid into one another with a flurry of ferocious punches, she watched as Commander Snow began to stagger, his legs shaking from the assault. Yet he gave as good as he got, sending Lord Magnar's blood flying across the field of battle to join the other blood spatters already present.

Both men looked to be on the verge of collapsing before Lord Magnar abruptly started laughing. “I am impressed, Lady Stark! You found a warrior able to stand his own ground against me. It is rare to find such strength so far from Kingshouse.”

“We are not done yet, my lord.” said Commander Snow, wiping more of his blood off his mouth.

“And he still wants more!” the Skagosi laughed, patting the man on the shoulder. “No, you have proven your strength to me, Commander.”

Turning towards Sansa, Lord Magnar nodded. “I admit that I was wrong about you.” he said as he spat more blood from his mouth, along with a few of his teeth. “You and your main-landers do have a strength inside you. Perhaps...perhaps you are worthy of following.”

Slowly the man dropped to his knee. “I said if you proved your strength I would kneel. A Magnar always keeps his word.”

Sansa felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Thank you, my lord.” she said, waving over Maester Wolkan to treat both of the combatants. “You fought valiantly and fiercely as any man of the North would. Now, I believe we should break for the day – tomorrow we shall reconvene and, to my hope, ensure the stability and future of Skagos and the North proper.”

Putting a hand over her stomach Sansa felt somewhat at ease. _A future that has a King and Queen_, she mused with a smile.

* * *


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty difficult chapter to write, but I thought it turned out well! lots of call backs in here. 
> 
> next chapter will be a mix of jon and sansa chapters - note the ghost mention? heh

The recession of the snows even this high up in the Frostfangs was a sure sign that winter was coming to an end. At long last, Jon thought as he scaled the next incline. A gentle wind blew this way and that, but the nights of frozen despair with Qhorin Halfhand and the other rangers was long since passed.

Hauling himself up Jon sighed, turning to pull up the next man behind him which was – as always – Tormund. The wildling leader patted him on the shoulder as he stood up.

“I think we're close.” Jon said as Bulwer and the others scrambled back to their feet. “Best I can recall there should be a small crevice we have to squeeze through and then it is a straight shot to the river and the cave.”

The First Ranger eyed the path before them. “I mean no offence, my lord, but are we sure that your erm, insights are correct? You did say you received them in a vision, after all.”

“As clear as day.” he replied, looking out over the scenery. Before them was a single winding footpath, leading past jagged sheets of rock and stone. Dead trees stood on either side of the path, with the thawing snows continuing to expose the faint greenery underneath. “I understand your concern, First Ranger – but I think she wants us to find them.”

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy...and let the man be born. _

* * *

Jon looked around, startled by what he thought came on the wind. It sounded just like Maester Aemon's voice, repeating those same words he had said not long before his death. He had thought of them often in the last few months, and it felt as if they were seared into his soul.

As the group walked he pondered their meaning. The full conversation was entrapped in his head as though it happened just before their departure.

_Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel, the same counsel I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

_You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is crueller one, I fear. You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

The words were almost prophetic in Jon's mind now, given the events that had transpired following that conversation. _It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. _He had never desired leadership or command of any kind – it was something anathema to him. The burdens of leading men, of commanding them and at times, sending them to die, was one that weighed heavy on his soul.

The crevice was much larger then he thought; it was enough for two men to pass through side by side. After the group had passed through it, Jon saw the stream trickling at their feet and smiled.

“The hard part is over,” he said, gesturing to the water. “Now we simply follow it to the cave.”

_You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. _ Did he, though? He thought of Sansa and their child back in Winterfell; she certainly had the strength to do those things. But Jon felt the reluctance and hesitation returning almost at once. 

_I failed before,_ he thought ruefully. He could not do what Maester Aemon had said – to  _kill the boy,_ as it were. It had cost him dearly in the end – the evidence being the still-fresh scars still upon his chest. 

“You alright?” asked Val, pulling him from his stupor. “Barely said ten words since we climbed the last steppe.”

Jon nodded, “Sorry. Thinking...thinking about what an old friend said to me once.”

“Not the same prick what stabbed you, I hope?” she teased.

“No, not him.” he laughed as he drank from his waterskin. The group had paused to rest some and take stock of the situation now that they were closing in.

“Thankfully, it is only two days journey from our camp to where we are now.” said Bulwer as he laid out his map. “Once we reach the cave, we should be able to get most of our men into position rather easily, following the route we already marked.”

Tormund nodded his approval. “Good! The sooner this is done, the better. These cold ones are a fuckin' nuisance to my people and yours, Lord Crow.”

“Let's go.” Jon gestured to the stream. “The sooner we find the cave the sooner we can prepare.”

His mind was still lost in thought as they followed the waters. He had said often and loudly that he had no desire to be a leader; he did not wish to be Lord Commander or King or Warden or anything – only that he wanted to live a simple life free of responsibility. It had been something he had defended up and down, that leadership was for other men and not him.

Yet hearing Maester Aemon's words again and as prominent as they were – it was hard not to feel a sense of reluctance about his previous hesitations. He was to be a father, soon – and it was a position of leadership in its own way. A role he could not simply turn down or flee from.

Jon knew it was clear that he had gone down the wrong path.

The truth was hidden in the old man's words. _It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born. _He could not hide behind the false walls he threw up around himself; he had to face the facts about his life and soon.

_It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not a Jon. _ It was ironic that his birth name was shared with the same man that Maester Aemon gave the original advice to – Aegon the Unlikely, who had been a wise and just ruler. 

Of course this did not mean he would magically embrace a heritage he knew nothing about – he was of the North and held the blood of the Kings of Winter. He was not Aegon Targaryen, but perhaps he had to have the mindset of a ruler – he could not be the Jon Snow who hid from duties that must be done. He had made hard decisions as Lord Commander and King before, it was true – but they had been made when he was still unsure of himself in the deepest parts of his soul.

“Hey! We're here.” Val swatted him on the back, stirring him from yet another stupor.

Before them stood the cave; a great gaping hole in the rock that loomed downwards into the blackness of the rock below. Still, there was no sign of any of the Cold Ones; if they were here, they were keeping their presence as quiet as possible.

Jon felt a wave of unease emanating from the cave. He gestured towards the stream. “We...we should make camp somewhere out of sight.”

He turned to the two black brothers. “You two should start heading back now that we have found it. Gather the men and bring them here as fast – and as safe – as you can. Once you arrive we can begin preparations. The three of us will explore it as far as we can without being seen.”

Bulwer looked to Jash. The tracker had been invaluable in helping them avoid hazards and other perils on the journey. “Right. I would caution against exploring too far – given you are three and they may be several hundred. Jash and I will be back as soon as we can.”

“Aye, shouldn't be too long, m'lord.” Jash agreed, “now that we knows the way up, we can follow the arrows on the way back.”

“Be safe, both of you.” Jon patted them on the shoulder. He still felt a sense of kinship with the black brothers; it was where he had learned, in part, to become who he was as a person today. Even though some of them had taken part in his death, the majority had not. He thought of men like the Halfhand, of Grenn and Pyp and Edd.

As the pair set off back the way they came, the trio began to set up camp away from the cave mouth.

“It was Maester Aemon.” Jon finally said, after they had finished preparing their tents. Tormund and Val looked to him.

“That white haired fellow with the chains at Castle Black? He dressed me wounds.” Tormund said, pulling out a horn of ale. “He were old, but damned good at what he did.”

He nodded. “I have had what he told me on...on my mind since we set out.” Jon explained the maester's speech to them. Both of them, to their credit, listened without interrupting with any sarcastic or japes – something Jon appreciated.

* * *

“I've just been thinking about his words. Sansa wants...wants me to be King in the North and rule at her side. Once the babe is born, I will be both a father and a ruler.” he sighed, “but for so long I have shirked from responsibility. You know that, Tormund.”

Tormund sat down on a small rock where their fire had started burning. “Old man had some good words. 'slike I told you before, you've a gift for this kind of thing, baby crow.”

Jon snorted, taking a seat next to him. “Some gift.”

“I'm serious! Might not want to do it, aye, but when you do – it's something you do well.” he insisted, taking a big gulp of his horn, “and for what it's worth, any stiff kneeler will enjoy more peace an' prosperity with you as their lord then some other stuffy twat not worth a damn. You've been in the fire and flames with us! You know what battle is, what winnin' is, what losin' is. You care about those you rule. That's important.”

Val remained standing, sharpening her spear. “He's not wrong. But what your old maester said – it's true of anything. We all have to go from little boys and girls to men and women. Might mean something different to everyone – but in your case, it means to go from Jon Snow the crow afraid of flying, to Jon Snow the leader of the flock.”

Taking in her words, Jon remained quiet.  _Perhaps what she is saying is true_ , he thought. It would do him no good to shirk his responsibilities now that he was officially allowed to return home. He had taken on a great responsibility the day he drove a dagger into Daenerys's heart – yet it seemed that fate was always destined to involve him somehow, or try its damnedest anyway. 

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

“Let me tell ya a story about Mance.” Tormund said, throwing aside his ale horn. “He never wanted to lead, you know. When he flew down from the Wall an' became one of us, he was content to live as free as you have. But he saw the threat that was comin' for all of us. And he knew that someone had to lead the Free Folk south before winter consumed 'em.”

“Now, it weren't easy as you know.” he grinned. “We're free folk – we don't like followin' anyone. It took him twenty years but he did it – he got us all united under his cloth. I 'member talking to him after I swore him me allegiance. He told me that someone had to take our people south, an' the rest of the clan leaders were only interested in looting and fightin'. Someone had to take charge of the 'shit heap' as he called it.”

Jon nodded. “Times are different now, though.” he yawned, “the Others are gone. And soon, these cold ones will follow them. Then...”

“...then it'll be up to you an' the wolf queen to put the North back together!” Tormund finished for him. “An' out of anyone, I know the two of you will have the best chance of doin' it. Hands down.”

“It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg.” Jon repeated the maester's words.

Val handed him some jerky. “Time for you to take off your bastard cloak an' put on your crown.”

Jon ate in silence, chewing on the tough meat as best he could. The sun had begun to set, and the gentle wind grew cool. “I will take first watch.” he said, looking to the two. “tomorrow, we should set out early to start scouting.”

“Think the crows an' the rest of our people will want to know what we're up against.” agreed Tormund, starting for his tent. “See ya in a few hours, baby crow. I'll be takin' second watch.”

Val took his place next to him a moment. She squeezed his hand tightly, something that surprised Jon. “You'll figure it all out. We free folk might not know shit about the south but when it comes to leading, well...every man's a chieftain in his own little mind.” she grinned.

“Thanks, Val.” Jon smiled. “See you in the morning.”

After she retired to her and Tormund's tent, Jon unbuckled Longclaw and laid it across his lap. The sword had been with him since – well, it had been years since Lord Commander Mormont had granted it to him as a reward for saving his life. It was an old friend, having defended the realms of men from all manner of threats – wildlings, the dead, the Boltons, the Lannisters, all of it.

The blade shined when he drew it from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel looking as fresh as the day it had been forged. It was ironic; the blade and others like it had outlived its creators. The Valyrians had learned to ride dragons and conquered most of the known world, yet were extinguished in a single day after thousands of years of supremacy.

_It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. _ Jon knew that there was a choice he had to make, just as he had done in King's Landing. And as much as he wanted to shirk the responsibilities once again, to refuse and refuse – he had to accept that he could not any longer. 

Getting up from the rock he began to pace the length of the camp, putting Longclaw back on his hip. Looking up at the sky, Jon thought of Sansa and his unborn child. Of his friends and of Ghost, who still was a part of him even while they were separated. 

Taking a drink from his water skin, Jon looked back to the camp.  _Time to get settled in for my watch_ , he thought as he returned to sit next to the fire. 

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

* * *


	32. Chapter 32

Throwing himself onto his furs, Jon felt the fatigue of the last few hours overwhelm him almost at once._ Tormund's got the watch_, he thought as his mind drifted off into unconsciousness.

He awoke almost immediately, finding himself in a thick patch of woods. Panic began to sink in; had he been taken by the cold ones? Where were Tormund and Val? The anxiety began to fade as he felt another presence around him; one that was thankfully familiar.

_Ghost._ The direwolf's body was now his own, and he quickly set off towards Winterfell – the scent of man being strong and musky. Jon felt Ghost's mind with him; while he knew what his master was doing, it still made the wolf uncomfortable.

_I'm sorry, boy. I have to see her. _

Soon the walls of Winterfell came into view and Jon felt his heart beating rapidly – well, Ghost's heart.

The few people outside of the castle paid him little mind; the large wolf was a common sight since they had returned home following the Battle of the Bastards, and most of the castle's staff and residents thought of him in an affectionate way.

Despite darkness being prevalent, Jon was able to find his way to the front gate which was open. A series of wagons waited outside, with men milling about with torches and barrels.

“That's the last of 'em, Your Grace!”

Jon heard a familiar voice and bounded into the castle, finding himself standing before Davos and Sansa. He had to resist the urge to leap onto her and kiss her – though his kisses would simply be enthusiastic licks – as it would not be proper. So, he stood and watched them.

“When I explained to Lord Cerwyn that giving us the grain would be considered a personal favour from the Queen, he was more then happy to listen.” Davos grinned, thumbing to the wagons. “By my count that's the last of it.”

Sansa looked as radiant in the dark as she did in the light. Her stomach was starting to show ever so slightly, and Jon could smell the child within her – their child. “Then we can start shipping the grain to White Harbour to make for Skagos at once.”

Skagos? Jon was confused. Why would the North be dealing with them? Still, it was her decision to make – she is the Queen, after all.

“One thing I'm worried about is the time it will take.” Davos looked somewhat uncomfortable as he moved forward. Jon padded toward them, allowing himself to be seen. "Once we load the grain onto the ships, we'll have to make sure we have good conditions for sailing. Could take close to a month to get it there."

“And the Skagosi may not have that long.” Sansa nodded grimly.

Davos let out a grunt of surprise as he noticed the direwolf. “Oh, look who's back!” he called, patting him on the head. “Find any good game?”

“Ghost loves to hunt in the woods around here. It keeps him active.” Sansa stepped over to where he stood, running a hand along his muzzle. Jon teased her fingers with a gentle lick and she giggled.

A third figure appeared next to the wagons. A woman Jon did not recognize. “Your Lord Davos raises a good point, Your Grace.” she said, her tone rough and cynical. “By the time the grains reached us half of us would be dead.”

“What other solution is there?” asked Davos, turning to face her.

“We could use our fishing boats to move the grain to the island. It would be far faster to transport them by land to the Seal Shore.” said the woman,.

Sansa seemed to like the idea. “It may well work. The area around Seal Shore is sworn to House Umber, and Lady Umber assures me that the region is free of wild beasts and bandits both. But, if we move the grain by fishing boats, it will take several days, perhaps a week or more, to send it across – and that is if the sea cooperates.”

“It is worth the risk.” the woman gestured to the wagons. “We can ride with your caravan once we've sent our birds. I will need to tell Hagen and Osric; I am sure they will agree with my idea.”

Jon watched the trio as they talked, his eyes fixated on Sansa as she commanded with authority and strength. He was in awe of her, even now as Ghost. Walking forward, he nudged her leg with his nose.

“...have arranged for guards to accompany the wagons, so as to see off any who may wish the grain for themselves. Oh! Hello, Ghost.” she smiled, scratching behind his ear. Jon felt the contentment that Ghost did, and for a moment – fleeting, but still wondrous – he felt none of the responsibilities or stresses of being anything more then a direwolf.

“Ah. Jon Snow's beast?” asked the woman, offering him a smile. “I had hoped to meet the man when we arrived.”

Sansa nodded. “Unfortunately, in his role as ambassador to Hardhome he was needed there to conduct some important business with the free folk and their leaders. He should be returning in a few weeks if you wish to remain.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but no. We should ride with your man Ser Davos and see to the grain.”

“I understand, Lady Crowl. Still, you and your people are welcome in Winterfell at any time.” Sansa smiled, her gaze turning towards an approaching figure. “Ah, here is Maester Wolkan.”

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace.” said the maester, bowing as he approached. “A raven from White Harbour for you.”

She took the scroll, turning to the woman she called Lady Crowl. “Maester, please take Lady Crowl, Lord Hagen and Lord Stane to dispatch messages to Skagos at once.”

Bowing, the Maester gestured to the keep as he and the woman set off. Sansa opened the scroll.

Jon felt the anxiety and anger wafting off her with Ghost's powerful nose. He wanted to comfort her, but could do nothing but offer a low whine from her side.

“What is it, Your Grace?” asked Davos, his face growing concerned.

“Another 'request' from Lord Manderly to settle the Dreadfort situation.” she sighed. “More and more do these lords write to me asking me to give them this and that – this is the fourth raven from a lord asking about the damned Dreadfort.”

“Maybe we should just knock it down and let them fight over the rubble.” added Davos with a laugh.

Laughing, Sansa shook her head. “I will need to discuss this with the council in the morrow.” She looked to him. “No matter; your mission continues with the Skagosi, Davos. Take them and ride for the Seal Shore when they are prepared for the journey.”

“Dark wings, dark words.” mumbled the Onion Knight as the pair made for the keep. Jon followed close behind, but felt Ghost's impatience now growing. He wanted his body back, and Jon was wroth to keep him any longer.

He would make it up to his friend and companion when he returned.

* * *

Jon woke with a start, gasping out loud.

“Hey! Wake up, baby crow!” came Tormund's voice, shouting through the tent flap. “There's people comin' out of the cave!”

Quickly, he rushed out of the tent and was nearly blinded by the morning sun rising high. Tormund gestured to the rocks nearest their camp and crept over to where Val crouched. Jon followed, careful with his steps.

Peering over the rock he saw a group of figures standing at the cave mouth. “Can't hear what they are sayin',” mumbled Val, looking back to the two men.

“We could try sneakin -” offered Tormund before Jon hit him in the shoulder.

“No! We stay here. Out of sight until our men arrive.”

Jon returned to his observation. He counted a half-dozen, with two figures more prominent then the others. One wore a faded brown robe while the other carried a large but primitive looking axe; just like the kind used by the free folk, he noted. The two in question appeared to be deep in discussion, the remaining figures simply acting as guards or sentries.

“It looks like we're on the right track, at least.” whispered Tormund. “We could take 'em.”

Val shook her head, rolling her eyes at Tormund. “No, ass. We watch and wait. If they are scouts, and they don't come back I think our cold lady will send out an army – then we'd be well and truly fucked.”

“She is right,” Jon whispered, “we stay here and wait for them to pass.”

With a grunt of annoyance, Tormund settled into his crouching position and waited. Nothing else was said between the trio as they watched the two figures make a circle around the cave mouth, both of them gesturing – the axe-wielding one doing so somewhat forcefully, as though shouting.

After several moments, all of the figures returned to the cave save for the robed one, who remained staring out over the mountains. He knelt down and picked up a handful of dirty snow before smearing it onto the front of his robe. It was only then that he returned to the cave.

Waiting a few moments to ensure they were gone, Jon stood up. “We should wait until the sun goes down to start scouting.” he said. “That way we know they are not in the cavern looking to ambush us.”

“Good idea.” nodded Tormund, letting out a groan as he got to his feet. “Bah, 'm too old to crouch and kneel down.”

“Not used to kneeling, Tormund?” Jon teased, causing him to laugh.

Val whipped her hair over her shoulder, gesturing to the camp. “Come on, boys. We've got some waiting to do.” she said, her tone both sounding annoyed and amused.

* * *

Ovir rolled his eyes as their party exited the cave, coming to stand before the small stream. With a nod he gestured the guards into position so he and his companion could speak in relative privacy.

“The Divine One says that they are getting closer.” he said, shaking his head. “yet she insists that she be the one to face Jon Snow himself. I have pleaded with her to reconsider, but she won't.”

“Our people are ready. We can easily destroy the invaders!” growled Svenjar. “My warriors are well trained and ready to die for the cold gods. We cannot simply sit back and wait!”

Ovir nodded. “It is Her command for us to wait, Svenjar. You would have us go against Her will? After we have already lost so much?” He thought with sorrow of the cold gods, vanquished by blind heretics before their dreams could be fulfilled.

“Would you have the black crows and their wild allies find us and slaughter Her and the others? Come now, priest. Even you must admit we have to act!” Svenjar ground his teeth together. “If we allow Her to face them alone She may perish!”

Holding up a hand, the priest scowled. “Do not say such things!”

“I speak the truth, Ovir. Now, when they come storming through the cave and into our home, we have a choice. Would you have us sit back and watch as Jon Snow kills the Divine One? The last of the gods themselves?” Svenjar shook his shoulder. “or would you have slay the heretics and preserve our way of life?”

Ovir sighed. As much as it despaired him, he knew that Svenjar was right. One hundred warriors armed with castle-forged steel would make quick work of their village if no one stood against them. Jon Snow was famed for his destruction of two of the Cold Ones themselves – what would he do against the Divine One?

“May She forgive me...” he mumbled.

“You are Her priest, Ovir. You must choose. I will not act without a blessing.” the warrior insisted.

“...Prepare your warriors. When they come from the cave we will engage them at the gates. If the Divine One wishes to punish someone after they are dead, I will take Her wrath myself.” he sighed, hanging his head.

“You choose wisely.” Svenjar gestured to the warriors who accompanied him. “Back to the village! We must make ready!”

“I will come shortly.” Ovir waved them away. He stood, looking over the horizon. This place, their home – the blessed Frostfangs had concealed their faith for millennium while the Cold Ones had prepared for the second Long Night. What would have been rejoicing as they streamed from their homes to exult in their blessings had turned to horror in finding them vanquished.

It was only the Divine One who kept them from giving into despair. And now he would be forced to disobey Her.

Kneeling, he picked up a handful of dirty snow. “Give us the strength to defeat the heretics, cold ones.” he whispered, smearing it onto his robe. With a deep sigh he turned back to the cave and returned to the darkness, making his way toward the village.

* * *


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay, this was the hardest one to write so far. major writers block on this one. Will try to return to a regular update schedule I promise!

The comforting light of the torches helped illuminate the massive cavern as Jon watched another group rappel down. In this group was the First Ranger, who greeted him with a strong handshake. “Glad to see you have made it alright, Lord Snow.”

Jon nodded. “How many more are up top?” The plan had been simple; they would descend the sixty-foot drop to the bottom of the cave in small groups of five or six, until all one hundred men were down in the cavern. It was large enough to hold at least three times that number, and thankfully gave no indication of habitation by the cold ones.

“Another twenty or so.” Bulwer said, turning his gaze back to the edge. They had set up several hefty ropes and ladders of strong leather and hide, allowing men to descend quicker to the cave floor. Jon and the group had judged it easier to rappel down then try to descend the cavern naturally; there were so many twists and turns Jon found while scouting that it was hard to keep track.

_Only the cold ones know this place,_ he thought. _We must be cautious. _

He looked to the exit of the cavern, a long tunnel leading up a slope where shafts of sunlight could be seen. Jon felt apprehension start to snake its way into his mind once more; they were close to their target, and all of their strength would need to prepare them for what was to come.

“Ready to go?” Tormund grinned. “Be fun to take the fight to these fuckers, won't it?”

“Truly, I will be glad when this is over.” he admitted. Fighting was never something Jon enjoyed; the thrill of battle that some such as Tormund got when facing down a foe was something he'd not felt. He knew how to fight and would not hesitate to fight and kill when needed – but it was an exhausting task to keep up most of one's young life.

“So we can get back to Winterfell, aye?” Tormund laughed, nodding to the exit. “Just a little bit more, baby crow.”

There was one thing that Jon was thankful for; the fact Tormund was able to keep his raunchy sense of humor even in a situation such as this. He never failed to make anyone around him laugh – despite being in the face of danger or death.

“First Ranger, ser!” called a brother from the exit. “Man approaching!”

The trio turned to face the path as they spotted a single figure approaching the cavern. Exchanging uneasy looks, Jon approached the exit and waited for its arrival. Could it be the Night's Queen come to issue a challenge?

_Whatever it was, we must be careful._ “Stand ready.” he shouted as the wildlings and black brothers drew their weapons, a half-dozen crowding around him as the figure entered the torchlight proper.

Jon recognized the figure as one of the cold ones that they had watched speak at the mouth of the cave. The man was tall and strong, carrying a hefty looking battle-axe in one hand. His armour was a mix of faded bronze, covering his wrists, arms and chest while his legs were unprotected. Jon saw in the torchlight a pair of climbing spikes on the end of his boots – they looked like iron, but he was not sure.

There was a feral glint in his eyes that could be seen through the weirwood mask he wore. This was a warrior, and a dangerous one. He reminded Jon of Rattleshirt, in truth – though somewhat more feral in appearance. Even the Lord of Bones was uniform in his look, whereas this one wore whatever he scavenged from the field.

Coming to a stop a few steps from the entrance, the man pointed to Jon. “You are the one they call 'Jon Snow'?” he asked.

“I am.” Jon replied, “and we are here to end your attacks against the free folk and the people of the North. Any way we can.”

The man laughed. “I do not see why the Divine One concerns herself with you. Pathetic! This land belongs to us, the faithful followers of the Cold Ones. They may be vanquished but we shall honour Them and purge the heretics infesting our territory.”

“Enough of this.” Jon shot back. “Come and face me, then. You against me. If you are not too much of a coward to strike at this 'heretic'.” It was with a certain grim satisfaction that he saw the man's face contort with anger, if only for a moment.

Men like that were easy to goad, their anger often times leading to their deaths when they made a mistake. They would rush into a fight, heedless of any dangers. Jon had seen it too many times before; it made no difference if from the North, the South or the Frostfangs.

“I am tempted to end your pathetic life right here.” he seethed, before shaking his head. “but no. I will not be as stupid as you think to give you the advantage!”

A scuffling noise drew Jon's attention from behind. Taking his gaze off the man for a moment, he turned just in time to watch dozens of shouting and screaming cultists stream into the cave from both side passages, their speed taking the defenders by surprise.

Turning back around quickly, Jon made to advance – but found his foe walking away casually. “We will fight again soon, Jon Snow!” he called with a hooting laugh, as two more cultists came screaming out of the cave behind him.

“Ambush!” he shouted as he hacked down one of the cultists before the other thrust at him with a bronze sword, swinging wildly as he shrieked with laughter. Jon was quick to batter aside the man's blade and buried Longclaw deep in his stomach.

Around him the men were fighting back against the cultists, many of whom were throwing themselves at black brothers and wildlings in an attempt to knock them onto the cave floor, before hacking at them with their primitive weapons.

He watched as Tormund threw one of them into a wall before disembowelling him with his axe. Jon quickly slammed into a second cultist who was advancing on his friend, knocking the attacker to the ground. Quickly, he buried Longclaw in the man's chest before pivoting, blocking a thrust from a spear.

Jon hacked the end of the spear off and slashed upward, taking his foe in the throat.

Within moments it seemed the battle was over; the surviving cultists were already fleeing back into the passages. “Do not pursue!” he shouted, “those tunnels are a maze. You will be lost if you do!”

“You alright?” Tormund asked as Jon walked over to him.

Nodding, he put Longclaw back into its scabbard. “Fine. I was not expecting them to strike so fast.”

“A skirmish, more like.” said the First Ranger as he came to stand next to the pair. “It seems that is their plan, so far. Quick and fast attacks, in an attempt to wear down our numbers and exhaust us before we reach their village.”

_It made sense,_ Jon reasoned. His force had the weapons and armour, but it was likely the cold ones had the numbers – not to mention the fanatical will – to throw themselves in groups at them, killing or wounding a few at a time.

By the time they found their target, how many would be left to stand against their goddess? A dozen? Less?

“Gather the bodies and start a pyre.” Jon ordered, looking to the cavern. “We can burn them inside as long as we are ready to march after it is over.” The Others may be defeated, but he was not about to take any chances.

The survivors quickly set to work. As Jon hauled one of the corpses onto the stack of bodies, he kept his eyes fixed on the side passages. They had posted guards, but he was still worried about further attacks. _The sooner we leave this place, the better. _

By the time they had finished stacking the bodies – both cultist and ally alike – it was past nightfall. The cavern was pitch black, and the torches that remained lit barely helped keep any light on the assembled. It felt as though they were standing in the maw of some great beast, with the torches the only reminders of where they actually were.

“Is everyone ready?” Jon asked, looking to the wildlings and black brothers. His arms ached from the effort of lifting and moving bodies, but it was imperative that they press forward.

Bulwer nodded. “All of the rangers are packed and ready.”

“Same with our warriors.” noted Errok, still limping from a leg wound.

Taking one of the torches, Jon gestured to the central passage. “Through here we come out just before a small forest. Through the forest is a frozen lake and across that lake is the village. We will set camp after leaving the cavern fully. Light the pyre and be ready.”

As they walked, the smell of burning flesh hung in the air. It was almost appealing, Jon noted with some horror. Considering that they had been surviving off bread, cheese and horse-meat since they began the journey, the thought of freshly cooked cuts was arousing.

* * *

“So, what now?” asked Tormund, once they were clear of the cavern.

Jon looked over to the nearby trees. They were tall, gnarled and ancient with great pine coverings appearing to link them all together. Clearly, they had never been tended – as it was meant to be in the eyes of the cold ones, most likely.

“We have to make our way through that to get to the clearing.” he said after a moment's pause. It would take the remainder of the night for the rest of the men to get their camp assembled once all of them were clear of the tunnel.

Thankfully there had been no sign of pursuit, though one of their free folk scouts had found tracks leading into the woods to the east. Likely it was the way the cultists went, fleeing back to their village through a path that only they knew. Jon did not know any secrets of this place, however – he knew that they were near the gates to their stronghold, and that was where they would go.

“It's a perfect ambush site.” noted Val, her eyes gazing up to the tops of the trees. “if it were me, I would be sending men to climb the trees.”

“She's not wrong.” agreed Tormund, wrapping an arm around Val's shoulder. “We gotta be ready. The cold fuckers don't care if they live or die, by the looks of things. They will throw themselves at us until we die or they do.”

Jon nodded, watching some of the men as they unpacked. Others chatted around several campfires set up, while a few walked the perimeter in groups of three, long spears jutting high into the air. The air was thick, and he felt uneasy even though he had been relived to get free of the burnt flesh teasing his nostrils.

“We rest tonight.” he said after a pause, “tomorrow, we set out. The sooner we make it to their village, the better. I know they will throw more of their people at us in the attempt, but what other choice have we?”

“The rangers will be ready.” assured Bulwer, looking ominously into the forest. “No matter what comes.”

_No matter what comes, indeed._ Jon thought. _We are the watchers on the wall. _

* * *

The blue hand approached her cautiously, the young man holding the blade of ice in his frostbitten, blackened palms. She knew they felt no pain; the blue hands volunteered to handle her armour and weapon when it was necessary, and their sacrifice of flesh helped her prepare for challenges.

She held out her arm and took the hilt, the searing cold feeling no worse then a slight tingle in her fingers. The blade glimmered in the torchlight as she examined it. Thousands of years of history lay in this blade.

It was hard not to think of when she had last used it. The defence of the Nightfort against the armies of House Stark and the free folk. The irony was not lost upon her; she now found herself facing off against the armies of House Stark and the Free Folk once more, in a manner of speaking.

She was ready to die with her beloved that day. Ready to give her soul – whatever mangled spirit that now inhabited her form – to defend him and their kingdom. But Brandon had refused, and in an act of supreme indignation, her brothers had whisked her away from the keep before he met his end.

Taking the sword, she pressed it into her back, the frozen chest-plate she wore making the blade stick.

Today would be a reckoning long sought, for her. She had destroyed Bloodraven, the creature that had plagued her kin for over a hundred years – the greatest threat they had faced since the end of the last Long Night – and had survived the destruction of her brothers at the hands of the Starks.

What else was there to do? Lead the cold ones? She pitied them, in a way – they hungered for vengeance against the ones who killed their gods; gods who cared not if they lived or died. They were a source of new Others, she knew from the thoughts of her brothers. A means to an end.

“Divine One,” whispered one of her priests. “High Priest Ovir, he is not here.”

She blinked. “Where is he?”

“We...we do not know.” he answered, a tone of nervousness in his voice. “He and Champion Svenjar are gone, as are most of our warriors.”

Moving quickly she exited the hut, walking with a brisk pace to the centre of the village where the weirwood lay. The tree was old – vastly older then even her and her brothers – and had been here when the races of men, perhaps even her creators, were young.

She placed a hand against the blackened bark, reaching out to find those she sought. It took only a moment, but she found them – the warriors moving into position in the elm forest near the cavern with Svenjar.

Ovir was just outside the village gate, presumably awaiting their return.

She had given explicit instructions to allow Aegon Targaryen and his party to approach peacefully. She would face him. She _must _face him alone. It would allow her the end she sought now that the last vestiges of concern were no more. To be with Brandon once more.

And now the priest and the warriors had disobeyed her. A cold, almost primal anger surged through her normally calm body.

“What are your instructions, Divine One?” asked the priest.

She whipped her head around to face him. “Mine priest has betrayed us. Our warriors have betrayed us. I will seek Ovir and Svenjar and render unto them justice.”

“What of the village?” he asked.

Taking her hand from the tree she started toward the gate. “The people shall remain in their homes and farms. They will make no moves until mine return with Aegon Targaryen. Then I shall face him alone, as was instructed.”

* * *


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again my apologies for the delay. was tough to write this one as I suck at fight scenes. I hope you enjoy though <3

“Stay together!” Jon shouted as he blocked another clumsy slash from a screaming cultist. He brought his sword down and sent it deep into his attacker's side, the man's blood splashing on the snow and on his clothes in equal measure.

All around him, the double column of Free Folk and black brothers were locked in fierce combat with attackers, many of whom continued to stream in from the forest around them. He had expected an attack, to be sure; but the force of it had taken him by surprise.

They were barely halfway into the forest, following the small footpath left by thousands of years of activity on the brush when the attack began. Dozens of them leaping from the trees and landing on groups of men, while at the same time more emerged from the trees in waves of a dozen or more.

Jon quickly thrust Longclaw out, catching another attacker in the belly as he stood over a wounded wildling. They had no time to offer thanks as a spear flew by his head, impaling a black brother through the neck.

_Obvious trap_, he thought. But it was the only way forward – the cold ones knew that they would have to follow this remarkably straightforward path in order to reach the village. The cultists knew this land far better then the free folk ever could; they had known it since the first Long Night, if not longer.

Another attacker swung wildly with his bone knife, but Jon was able to easily dodge his clumsy attacks and delivered a forward slash across his midsection, felling him in a spray of blood and gore.

They had to get out of the woods, he thought. Still, the trees were thick and treacherous even on the small footpath, and that was not to mention the dozens of screaming warriors charging through the underbrush at them with every passing moment.

Jon rushed ahead, finally eyeing Tormund in among the chaos. The wildling leader, who had just finished burying his sword in the head of one of his attackers, looked to him with a ferocious grin. “Looks like I got me wish!” he cheered.

“We cannot stay here!” Jon shouted, “They will overwhelm us in this close fighting! We have to make for the clearing!”

“We'll -” Tormund began before he was tackled from behind by another cultist, taking him to the floor. Jon was quick to respond, hauling the screaming figure off his friend and running him through with his blade.

As the dead man crumpled to the ground, he helped Tormund to his feet. “Looks like you saved me life again, baby crow!” he laughed, patting him on the shoulder.

“I'll try not to make a habit of it!” Jon said, turning back to the battle. The sounds of men fighting and dying were starting to grow quiet, and he noted that no more attackers were coming through the trees at them.

_They're pulling back_, he thought. _For now. _“Men!” he called, gesturing with his blade. “We have to make for the clearing! Follow me!”

“What about the bodies?” asked a ranger.

Jon looked at the ground, littered with dead of all types. “We do not have time to burn them. Once this is finished we will come back and put them to rest, I assure you.” They could not spend the time seeing to proper burials when the enemy was still all around them. He felt them watching through the trees as they began their fast march.

The survivors held their weapons close as they went, constantly alert for any signs of movement. Jon still saw them watching from the shadows, the hateful glares from behind the masks evident in every step they took.

“I just took count.” said First Ranger Bulwer, coming up behind him quickly. “We've eight and forty left.”

“It will have to do.” Jon replied, keeping his gaze forward. They had lost more then half their party in such a short period of time, thanks to the ferocity of their attackers. Jon had never seen such brazen disregard for their own lives; they threw themselves happily to their deaths if it meant the loss of a single ranger or wildling.

“Do you think we've a chance?” asked Val, wiping off her blood-stained spear. “I mean, their numbers seem endless.”

Jon shrugged. “We have to defeat their leader. Once we do, they will break.”

“These aren't the dead, Jon.” Tormund said softly, “they have beatin' hearts like us. Might not be enough to break if they see their leader cut down.”

The group continued onward, every step bringing more and more tension into Jon's heart. He felt it beating faster, the crunching sound of the snow beneath their feet only amplifying his fears. Still, this was important- for the sake of those he loved, for the land and the people he'd sacrificed for already – they had to stop these fanatics.

He thought of his unborn child and what they might look like. It made him smile, even if only for a moment. He or she might have Sansa's red hair, or her perfect blue eyes – or his own melancholy brown...

* * *

“So he comes! Just as I thought.”

The voice was laced with mockery and derision, and Jon recognized it almost immediately as the leader of the group that had attacked them at the cavern. This time, the figure was standing in front of them, his axe slung across his shoulder and a look of murderous glee evident in his dark eyes.

Jon stepped forward. “I told you. We will not turn back, no matter what you throw at us.” he raised Longclaw as the rest of the group readied their weapons.

“You think that it impresses me? I spit on your 'bravery'.” he responded with a shrug. “You know not who I am, little worm. I am Svenjar, Champion of Winter – chosen by the cold gods themselves and blessed to carry out Their will!”

“Are you done? Or do you mean to just stand there and prattle on forever?”

The one called Svenjar growled. “I will destroy you and this pathetic host in Their name! You will f-”

Jon had broken into a sprint, aiming full at his foe's chest. He collided with the solidly built man and knocked him to the ground, although the impact into his chest caused pain to radiate throughout his own body. Both of their weapons went flying away and he was quick to try and seize the advantage, punching Svenjar in the side of his face.

That was negated as he felt the man deliver a powerful knee to his crotch, causing him to gasp out in pain and recoil, falling off the top of him and onto his back. Svenjar quickly took advantage of this and tried to get to his feet.

Jon managed to recover quickly, tackling him back down by colliding with his knees, careful to avoid the climbing spikes on the end of his boots. Around him, he heard the sounds of combat and imagined that the cold ones were now upon them again.

Quickly he crawled away, looking around for Longclaw – but felt a hand pull him by the hair backwards as Svenjar wrapped one of his arms around his throat, trying to throttle the life out of him. Jon felt the air leaving his body as he gasped out, flailing wildly as his vision began to swim.

He had to think quickly or he would be dead. His energy was fading with every second. The eyes, he thought in a surge of adrenaline. Go for the eyes.

Going limp, he did his best to conserve the last bit of air he had to make his foe think he'd won. Thankfully enough, it worked – as the man's head leered at him from the sides, his eyes visible clearly through the holes in his mask.

Jon took his chance as he began to laugh, jabbing his fingers into Svenjar's right eye and pushing with all his might.

The air returned to his lungs as his action was greeted by a roar of agony. Svenjar immediately let go, reaching up to his face as he reeled, letting Jon crawl away, his eyes frantically searching for his blade while the big man recovered.

Mercifully, Longclaw lay only a few steps away and he was quick to pick it up, turning back around to find Svenjar on his feet, grabbing his axe from where it had fallen. “Bastard!” he roared, ripping off his mask and rubbing his eye in pain; the orb was now a fierce red and was swelling quickly.

Grabbing lungfuls of air, Jon readied himself – only to find his foe already barrelling towards him, screaming out as he swung his weapon wildly. He ducked under a horizontal chop, then another as he kept advancing, his face now red with rage.

Another swing came for him and he blocked the axe, though the effort drew a great deal of pain from his body, causing him to stumble backward as Svenjar continued to advance, another swing barely missing his head and impacting into the tree behind him.

Seeing a chance, Jon stabbed with Longclaw for his midsection, but the man had let go of his weapon and side-stepped his attack, delivering a powerful punch to his face that caused him to spit out a great deal of blood as he crumpled to the floor, once again losing his sword.

Dazed, Jon tried to rise but found himself being lifted off the ground and thrown up against a tree, still unable to focus. He struggled to remain awake as his opponent looked for the fallen sword.

He knew he had a second weapon, but could not remember where it was. Dizzy and unable to concentrate, he struggled to lift his arm to where he thought it might be. The pain in his head was overwhelming, the sensation as though a thousand hot knives were being pressed into his skull.

Finally he felt the handle of his dagger and moved to draw it – only to feel his own blade pressed up against his throat. Around him, the sounds of battle were still echoing, as many of his forces were desperately holding off attacks from screaming fanatics coming from the woods.

“You will make a great offering!” Svenjar bellowed with triumph. “The Divine One will reward me greatly -”

His eyes went wide with shock as Jon plunged his dagger into his jaw with all of his might. The blade went up through his mouth and into his skull, the tip bursting out of the top of his head.

“You...talk too much.” Jon wheezed as the man dropped Longclaw, his face contorting into one of confusion as he fumbled for the dagger, collapsing into the snow.

Once he was sure the man was dead, he bent down and picked up his blade, stumbling back to his feet. His head still throbbed in agony and his mouth filled again with blood, but he had to press on. For Sansa, for Tormund, for every living soul that calls the North home.

“They're retreating!” a call went up, followed by cheering.

* * *

Stumbling over to the men, Jon saw that they were further reduced in number. Many lay dead on the blood soaked snow, both cultist and ally alike. It was Tormund who was quick to grasp him, holding him up by the shoulder.

“You look like shit, baby crow.” he observed as Jon leaned on him a moment, spitting out more blood.

“Thanks.” he replied dryly. “We...we need to press on. We should be near the village now..”

“You can barely stand, Jon.” said Val, coming up behind him and placing a hand on his back.

Shaking his head, he looked to the surviving men. “Doesn't...mater. We keep going. Leave the dead...no time.” The pain was still making his vision unstable, with dark spots and blurs coming at him fast. Yet they could leave nothing to waste; the longer he was idle the longer the cold ones had to regroup.

“Bulwer!” shouted Tormund, “Get some bandages for the baby crow.”

The First Ranger appeared a moment later, helping to wrap the back of his head, where he noted was bleeding from several gashes. “You should be fine, but I would again advise we wait.”

Jon was already off and moving through the forest as he spoke. “Come with me so we can end this once and for all!” he called, gesturing to the clearing.

He did not look back to check that they were behind him, but a part of him knew they were.

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

* * *


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost at the end, a few more chapters me thinks! a spoiler; this won't end with a Jon and NQ 1 v 1 but that is all I will say ;)

Emerging from the forest, Jon took in the sight before him. The frozen lake was large, about the same size as the one that he'd taken shelter on during the wight hunt disaster. It was solid and the ice appeared thick, so thick that he doubted anything short of dragon fire could shatter it.

On the other side of the lake he spotted the high wooden walls and gate leading to the cold one's village. Two large watchtowers rested on the other side of the wall, while two large flames burned brightly in each.

His head still hurt, but the pain had thankfully lessened with the wrapping by Bulwer. He took a few steps out of the woods as the first of his companions emerged not far behind. There were about three-and-ten left of the original one hundred that had set out, and not counting the ten that had been left behind – five at each camp – they had lost more then half of the men who had pledged to fight against the threat with him.

Guilt gnawed at his heart; every death was a tragedy and the fact that he could not burn the bodies of those that had fallen only added to his discomfort. Still, as a leader he knew what it meant to order those that followed to their ends.

He needed to think of the reason they were here. To stop a threat to the North and it's freedom. To stop a threat to the Free Folk and their slowly emerging culture back in Hardhome. _A threat to my family. _

“This is it.” said Tormund, stepping up behind him. “through that gate we find that witch and end her.”

Jon nodded. “Then we can all breathe easier.”

“Sansa and the babe sure will.” Tormund smirked, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Almost done, baby crow.”

They continued on in silence, crossing the frozen lake with ease. The fighters with him left reminded Jon of those who had come with him on the march to King's Landing; the battle-hardened survivors of the army of the dead. The wildlings, at least, were – they had fought at the battle of Winterfell, as had a handful of the rangers.

Yet every one here with him now had his trust. They would fight these fanatics until victory or death took them.

As they grew closer to the gate, Jon spotted a solitary figure standing at the edge of the lake. He drew Longclaw once more, gesturing to the men behind him.

“And so you survive.” the figure said, his voice remarkably calm. “I told Svenjar that he was a fool to try and attack you in the woods, but for some reason he never liked to listen.” Jon sensed a hint of amusement in the man's tone.

“Enough games. Enough tricks.” he spat, “tell your leader that I am here and ready to face her as she so often went on about. To end these attacks and your savagery.”

“Lord Jon!” shouted Bulwer. Turning his head, Jon saw that the path back across the lake was now blocked by a large party of cultists, perhaps several hundred. They did not move to attack, but had drawn their weapons and circled them.

The figure had moved closer, his robes blowing in the wind. “You will not step foot into this village. We will make sure -”

* * *

“Enough.”

A voice echoed through Jon's hearing. It was familiar – the crackling of ice and snow – as another figure approached. The Night's Queen, he knew at once. The cultists surrounding them quickly dropped to their knees, as did the man standing near him.

She looked as Jon remembered, only with a few differences. She was clad in the same armour that he'd seen the other White Walkers wearing – first at Hardhome, then beyond the Wall and finally at Winterfell – and held a sword of ice across her back. Her aura of intense cold continued to waft around them, his skin shivering violently as she approached the robed man, another robed figure trailing behind.

“Rise, mine loyal servant.” she commanded.

“Divine One, I am...surprised to see you outside of the village.” he said. Jon noted a sense of fear in his voice with the way he hesitated his speech.

Looking out over the crowd, Jon shivered as she gazed at him, offering a rueful smile. “I see that Aegon Targaryen and his band have arrived.”

“Y-yes, Divine One. The warriors -”

“...have disobeyed mine command. I was clear, dear Ovir – they were to be unburdened by our warriors as they came here. I have seen it thus, and it was to be followed.” Her tone was still as it was, yet her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked to the one named Ovir.

“Please, Divine One.” he pleaded, “Svenjar and I...we only sought to keep you safe from these heretics! They seek our destruction – your destruction! I beg your forgiveness. As your High Priest I must do what I can to keep you from harm. The Cold Ones are gone – you are Their last divine instrument!”

She remained unmoved. “You hath been a loyal servant, Ovir.” she said, turning her gaze to Jon.

In one swift motion she drew the ice blade and drove it into Ovir's heart, the blade hissing as it went through cloth and flesh. “Einjar.”

The robed figure that had accompanied her bowed low. “Divine One.”

“You shall take charge of thine flock.” she said, putting the ice blade back. “Mine followers,” she called out to the cultists. “Return to our home. Allow Aegon Targaryen and his companions succour here by my will.”

As one the assembled started for the gate without a word.

Jon felt the cold grow even more intense as she stepped closer to him. “I am glad you came, Aegon.” she said, gesturing to the gate. “I wish to discuss the future with thee within.”

“Oh no, he's not going anywhere with you, witch!” shouted Val, her spear at the ready.

“Try an' take him and we'll see what kind of guts you've got!” growled Tormund.

“I seek no fighting with any of you.” she replied. “I would speak with you about what has transpired. You may bring some of your companions within if you wish, but my word is true that none will harm thee.”

Jon wanted to refuse, to strike out and cut her down without a second thought. But from the vision she had imparted to him, he knew that there was a sense of...uncertainty...to her. Something she had hidden from the cold ones, that was meant for him to know. What it was, he did not know – but had the feeling that she was going to reveal it.

She turned to face the surviving companions. “I extend mine apologies. The attacks from Svenjar and Ovir were done against mine knowledge. Svenjar is slain at Aegon's hand, and Ovir at mine own. You shall face no more combat here – though I understand you may not trust in mine word.”

“Tormund. Val. Bulwer.” he said. The three stepped forward. “I want the three of you with me.”

“If you go in there you won't come out!” objected Val.

“She's right, Jon. Don't listen to the witch!” pleaded Tormund.

Bulwer kept his hand on his blade. “They are right, Lord Jon. After everything -”

“I want the three of you with me.” he repeated, his tone growing cold. “If this is a trick I will destroy you. I hope you know that.”

She only nodded. “Come, Aegon. Let me speak of the truth to you.”

* * *


	36. Chapter 36

From the moment he stepped through the gate Jon felt the eyes of the cold ones upon him. Those few that he saw glared at him with a mixture of contempt and murderous hatred, even as they dropped to one knee in reverence for their “Divine One”.

He kept one hand on the hilt of Longclaw as they entered the village. Around him, his companions did the same with their own weapons; Bulwer had his sword drawn, Val had her spear out and at the ready while Tormund clutched his blade so hard it looked as though he would crush the crude hilt from the pressure alone.

The village appeared to be much more then Jon had originally thought. He had pictured a primitive gathering of tents and crude shelters, fitting for a people willing to throw away their lives for the cause of the dead gods.

Instead, it was made up of at least a dozen large buildings, sturdy and constructed in the same manner as the ones in Hardhome. He saw cook fires this way and that, and the sounds of women and children filled his ears. He saw relatively few, but the ones he did see looked to him with the same hatred and scorn as their warriors did.

But his gaze was quickly drawn to the middle of the village. At its center was a great weirwood tree, perhaps the largest he'd ever seen. It towered over the buildings with its great branches easily the size of the trunk of Winterfell's own. However, where the heart tree in Winterfell grew with the traditional red leaves, this tree remained bare.

_There is history in this weirwood,_ he thought. It had to be ancient; even with no leaves upon its many arms, it still leaked sap from the face carved into the trunk – a huge solemn frown with eyes as large as a shield.

The Queen paused in front of the tree, where a table of some kind had been set up constructed of twisted roots. “It was from here that the villagers would make offerings to mine brothers.” she explained, “the first child born of the new season would be transformed. That was the agreement mine kin kept to, for it meant a way to survive.”

“Just like with Craster's sons.” Jon noted.

“He was giving them to the Others?” whispered Bulwer, “I knew that one was foul, but...”

“Craster was but one of the faithful.” she agreed, “but he was not a part of this flock.”

“Enough.” Jon stepped forward, coming to stand next to her. The cold she radiated made his skin prickle and he shuddered violently. “You said...that you would reveal the truth if I came with you. What truth is it?”

Her unnatural blue eyes gazed into his and she smiled, running a pale hand across his cheek. “In mine sanctum I shall reveal all to thee – but only thee, Aegon. Your companions must remain outside.”

“Nice try, witch.” Val growled, stepping forward, “get him alone and rip out his guts. I know what game you are playing.”

“I play no games, spearwife.” she countered. “If I wished for your deaths I would have simply allowed the flock to rend you limb from limb. Yet I did not do so.”

“It's alright.” Jon raised his hand toward the trio. “I will hear what she has to say. If she wishes to tell me alone, so be it. At the first sign of trouble, she knows I will not hesitate to act.”

Tormund looked around the village, gazing at the many hateful eyes fixated upon them. “Feel like we're at a feast where I'm the main course.” he added uneasily.

“They will not harm you, Tormund Giantsbane.” she said, trying to assuage his fears. “I hath commanded them to stay their blades. Mine priests will ensure that they obey, lest the fates of Ovir and Svenjar be theirs.”

* * *

Gesturing to Jon, she started to walk around the huge tree trunk. Following quickly, he caught up to her and walked at her side, the cold still causing him goose-pimples but slowly growing bearable. It reminded him of the time he spent in the Skirling Pass, having to huddle with the Halfhand and the other rangers for warmth at night.

He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of the man. He was long since dead, but Jon often wondered what he would make of his decisions and choices in regards to the free folk. He'd been fighting them most of his life, and it was not easy to let go of old hatreds on either side.

After a few moments, they made it to the northern face of the tree where another structure awaited them just ahead. It was smaller than the others and was covered with religious iconagraphy; Jon saw the symbols that the Others used – the spirals and diamonds and other eerie displays with corpses – painted all over the walls.

“Mine sanctum.” she said, approaching the doors. Pressing on the thick wooden door slab it opened with a shudder.

The sanctum was a single room, about the size of Jon's old living chamber at Winterfell when he was a child. There was remarkably little inside save for a single stool and an old, ancient chest. The walls were covered in the same symbols as the outside was.

She turned away and drew the ice blade from her back, placing it into the chest with a distinctive hiss. “This adventure is not turning out as thou had come to expect, has it?” she asked.

Jon shook his head. The behaviour she had shown was unlike anything he'd come to expect. Why help him against Bloodraven? Why help restore Bran to his old self, when the Night King had spent so long hunting him?

“That is one way to put it.” he admitted.

She turned to face him, “I wish to take you on a journey, Aegon.” Her hand brushed against his shoulder as she closed the gap between them. “To show you the truth I wish to impart to thee before – before the time is at hand.”

“The visions you showed me before..” Jon recalled with a shudder. They were intense and horrifying, something he did not wish to repeat.

She nodded. “I can promise that this journey will be less intensive. Thou shall not experience the same horror and fear as before. Twas different when I imparted those truths upon thee. More urgent. Now, the pace is slower.”

“It is still urgent, in case you forget. My home – my family – still faces the threat of your followers.” he shot back. “Unlike you, we are not immortal beings of ice and snow.”

“They will not be a threat after today. I can promise thee of that.” She extended a hand. “Take mine hand and journey into the past with me. Mine powers are such that we need not stand at a weirwood while in this place. A piece of the great tree is enough.” In her free hand, she held a gnarled piece of bark.

Jon was still skeptical. “I have no reason to trust you now.”

The queen smiled. It was still a chilling gesture, even if it was well meaning. “Do you wish for an end to this fighting, Aegon? I promise that I will give thee what you desire. I only ask for a short time to show you why I have arrived at the choices I have made.”

* * *

It went against all of his better judgment to do so, but the supernatural aspect of this woman and her powers was well known to him. The moment he took her hand, Jon felt himself spin. It only lasted a second, but it felt far more then that.

As his sight cleared he found himself standing in a room. It was somewhere in a castle or stronghold, given the thick walls and fine furnishings. “Where are we?”

She was at his side, gazing towards two figures toward the middle of the room. One was sat upon a bed while the other stood facing them. The one standing was a man, garbed in black as a brother of the Night's Watch was.

The sitting figure was the same as the one standing at his side._ The queen_, he thought. She looked much more as her brothers had, to his gaze. Her features were sharp and unnatural, with a cold gaze and spines of ice jutting from her head.

“This...” he started before she gestured him forward.

“The Nightfort.” she whispered, watching the two. “Just after mine beloved found me in the woods beyond.”

He turned his attention to the pair. The man was running a hand through his long brown hair, and as he turned Jon saw he had the Stark look quite clearly. A mixture of worry and anger crossed his face as he paced back and forth.

“...my brothers will not accept my explanations.” he said, his tone low. “How we managed to get beyond the gate is...is still a mystery.”

The queen of the past made no sound, only looking up at him. “How did you enter my dreams?” he asked, looking back to her. She made no reply, only to reach out a cold bony hand and caress his arm.

“You ask a great deal of me. My brothers. But...I need you.” he said, kneeling at the edge of the bed. “Something in my soul tells me I need you. I long for you – I always have. It is why I was here, was it not?”

Jon thought he saw a hint of a smile on her past self's face.

“My brothers spoke to him of their offer.” the current queen explained. “make her your queen and deliver unto us children – be they of the wild men of the north or the men of the southern lands, so we may survive.”

“In exchange?” he asked.

“He would become King of a realm of his own. My beloved was the second son of the wolf's house – he was not meant to gain anything upon his kin's deaths.” she said with a sad smile, “this way he would gain what he long desired. A crown and a queen.”

The Lord Commander rose, tapping his fingers on the wall. “What is their happiness compared to mine own? A kingdom of my own...but more then that, a queen to rule at my side. The Watch is...was wrong about the Others, it seems.”

He looked back to her. “But my brothers...they are loyal to the Wall, not to me. There have been thirteen Lord Commanders before me. Many of them...they will not turn so easily.”

Jon's vision faded again a moment. This time, he was on top of the Wall with the two figures and a small retinue. The Nightfort loomed below, the castle a massive stronghold that had once been the main garrison of the Watch in its days of long gone glory.

“I...remember.” the past queen said as the Lord Commander stroked her cheek. Her voice was hoarse and stammering. “What...what have you done?”

He smiled. “You have helped me – so I have helped you. Part of your humanity returns, my love.” he whispered, kissing her softly.

Jon looked to the current queen. “Did you not expect this?”

She shook her head, her usually neutral expression faltering only a moment. “No. Mine brothers were as bewildered as I. Yet it seemed that when we joined, my beloved gave me back what had long been destroyed by mine creators.”

“You are my queen.” he said as she caressed his cheeks. “Together we will build a kingdom.”

“A kingdom based on sacrificing children to the Others.” Jon mumbled. The dark history of the Night's King and his foul reign was well known to the black brothers. “A kingdom of darkness.”

As ever, his guide displayed no emotion at his words. “It was a necessity of survival, Aegon. I will not justify it to thee, but mine brothers sought only to grow their numbers. By this time they had become something far more then even I or our creators had ever demanded. It is...difficult to explain to one not of mine condition.”

“I still do not understand why I am here.”

She took his hand. “Patience, Aegon. One more vision.”

* * *

This time they were within the inner courtyard of the Nightfort, by the looks of things. The night sky twinkled overhead and the sounds of pitched and frenzied battle raged around them. The Night's King – who looked far older and dishevelled then his previous incarnations – stood towards the gate through the Wall, which was swung open.

On the other side Jon saw a cluster of figures standing just at the edge of the entrance. The sensation of nostalgia washed over him and he knew that he was looking at the Night King – the first Other created by the Children. The one he had fought at Hardhome, the one that Arya had slain in Winterfell.

He shuddered unconsciously.

The past queen stood in front of the gate. She was wearing a beautiful white and blue dress that made her appear the perfect noble lady, save for the pale skin and eerie blue eyes. She wore an expression that Jon did not expect to see – fear.

“I will not leave you.” she said, grasping onto the king's arm.

He turned to face her, joining their bodies into a tender kiss.”You must.”

“No.” she pleaded.

The sounds of battle grew closer. Jon could hear the shouts and screams all through the courtyard. “This was the night that the Starks and the wildlings ended his reign.” he said, although the answer was right before him.

His guide nodded. “Yes. Joramun and Brandon the Breaker cast down mine beloved and our kingdom. It was to be expected – he and I discussed it much at length – but their joining of free folk and wolf was unexpected.”

“Your Grace!” a shout came from the southern gate. A black brother rushed through, bowing before the pair. “The wildlings have captured the western wall. The wolves are battering down the outer courtyard door – it won't last much longer.”

“Pull the men back to the southern wall. Hold it against my brother's army as long as you can.” he commanded. As the man rushed off The Night's King turned to the northern gate, where the shadowed figures of the Others stood. “I have kept mine bargain with you, have I not? For three and ten years we have given the babes to you so you may survive.”

“I have never asked you for anything. Yet now I must plead.” he said, looking to the queen. “Not for my life or my kingdom, but for her. Take her away from here and let her survive.”

“No!” the past queen looked horrified. “I will not leave! I will not! Mine brothers cannot force me.”

He smiled at her. “You must live, my love. My time is at an end...but you are beyond anything. Beyond your brothers, even. You are the perfect joining of magic and man. The perfect queen for a new realm one day.”

“But -” she started. He silenced her with another kiss.

“I will always love you. Did I not prove my love so many times over?” he asked, their bodies pressing together. She caressed his face as Jon swore he watched tears fall from her eyes.

He felt a twinge of sympathy for her – despite all that her 'kingdom' had done and the horrors it inflicted, she was still at her core a woman who had been given back part of what she had long believed dead.

“Go. Please, my love. Before they come and destroy you as they will me.” he insisted, pushing her towards the gate.

She clutched at a necklace as she stepped through the gate. “My heart is yours. Every bit of mine withered existence will always be yours, Brandon. My beloved...”

He closed the gate behind her just as the southern gate smashed open. A dozen figures – Stark men and wildlings, he knew, although they looked nothing like the ones he had seen. These men were more savage, with weathered and battle-worn faces. Their leader - Brandon the Breaker - wore a crown of bronze and stepped forward towards the Night's King.

“Brother.” he said, pointing his axe toward him. “End this. Lay down your sword and call an end to this magic. I...we can help you.”

* * *

Jon found himself back at the sanctum with the queen. He blinked, shaking his head. “Are we finished now?” he asked her as she took in several deep breaths.

“We are. I wanted you to see mine past to know what I must ask of thee.” she explained, her fingers playing at her neck. “With the destruction of my brothers and of Bloodraven, there is no need for mine further existence. I am free now, Aegon. Free to ascend from this torment and join my beloved.”

“What about your fanatics?” he asked, raising a brow.

“They are not mine. Neither could I oppose them, you see? They worship mine fallen brothers with a zeal I could never harness. They will never relent in seeking vengeance against thee, and if I were to try and convince them otherwise they would lose themselves to savagery unseen.” she replied, turning to face him.

Nodding, Jon knew what she was going to ask before she said it. “You want me to kill you.”

She smiled, caressing his cheek again. “You are a good man. A paragon of justice and virtue. A fighter and a leader of men. You were the one to gather the armies of the living and show mine brothers that their cold hubris was foolish. Back in the wolf's den your lover waits with her child – your child- growing inside of her.” She ran a hand down her stomach. “I wished I was able to give my beloved a child of mine body.”

“You couldn't.” he said. Why did he feel pity for her again?

“Never. We both accepted it as part of our lives. But he is many millennium dead, and I hath been forced to endure in this torturous existence for longer then I wished. Though no one hath been able to destroy my brothers and allow me the release of death before you, Aegon.”

“If I kill you, the cold ones -” he began.

“Mine priests have already added poisons to the food. All of the village will take their last breaths within the hour.” she explained. “They believe it part of their ascension. All did partake willingly.”

Jon still felt confused. “Why now?” he asked, “Why wait for so long to ask this?”

“I had not thought it possible for mine brothers to be slain. Perhaps it was hubris or mine human failings of memory? I cannot slay myself, Aegon. I hath tried many times through the years.” She undid the straps on her chest plate and let it fall free.

Her chest was bare, the skin pale and cold like the rest of her. A great glowing orb hummed over the top of her breasts, near her neck. Jon recalled Bran telling him that the Others had been created through enchanted pieces of dragonglass shoved into their bodies.

“So, now you know the truth I have kept from all for thousands of lifetimes. Brandon gave me back part of what I believed destroyed, and I wish for an end to this cursed life. Allow me the peace of rest that I hath longed for for so long. Let me be with mine beloved once more. I beseech you, Aegon. Have mercy upon mine tormented soul.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sansa interlude for you all! 
> 
> as a note i am not a woman nor have I been with a woman who went through pregnancy so if I got the stages for kicking and movement wrong forgive me, let me know and i'll correct it

“Is it ready?” Sansa asked as the jeweller entered the hall, bowing before her as he did so. She had commissioned him for this task some nine days ago, and he was just now putting the final touches on her project.

The man nodded, his great beard bobbing up and down as he did so. “It is, Your Grace.” he smiled, gesturing for his apprentice standing behind him. The boy brought up a small chest, already unlocked and waiting. Wasting no time, the man opened the box.

Sansa stared at the crown with a flutter in her stomach, a mixture of nervous energy and the babe growing inside her. It was a bronze circlet, with nine black iron spikes forged in the shape of longswords. The runes of the First Men were carved within the circlet, running the length of it.

“This is the same?” she asked. Having never viewed Robb's crown, she had to base its recreation entirely upon the memories of those who had served with him and seen him wearing it personally. Thankfully, the jeweller in question easily recalled the crown having served in the Stark armies during the war.

“It is, Your Grace. I was part of the guard when Lord Hoster's smith presented it to the king himself.” he told her, smiling proudly. “A thing of beauty if I ever saw it.”

The crown was simple, yet strong – she could tell from the craftsmanship. “You have done me a great service, Master Hother.” she smiled, resting a hand on her stomach. “Maester Wolkan, see that Master Hother is paid double his commission price as a token of my gratitude.”

His eyes lit up like gemstones. “Your Grace is too generous!” he beamed.

After he left the hall, the maester leading him to receive his payment, Sansa turned to her council. “Jon will be pleased, I think.” her smile remained wide. “When I crown him with this I do believe he will faint from the shock.”

Ser Davos snickered. “He's not a fan of crowns, Your Grace. But – I think he would do, aye.”

“He may not want to lead, but he does it bloody well.” observed Lord William, “Remember the Battle of the Bastards?”

“How could I forget?” Davos had been at the fore front, charging into the fight even though he'd not been much of a warrior.

Lord William grinned. “My men that survived said that he fought like his direwolf – a beast unstoppable. I wish I could have been there, to be honest. Damned clubfoot.”

Sansa laughed, reaching down to pet Ghost. The wolf was always at her side, even during her time on the throne. The great beast licked at her hand softly, his great eyes glancing around the hall._ Poor boy,_ she thought. _He still misses him._

It had been almost two months since Jon had left again, and despite knowing the great risks that he took in this endeavour, Sansa knew that he would return – it was only a matter of when.

“Forgive me, Lord Mazin. I was not laughing at your malady,” she assured him.

He smiled. “Your Grace could call me the most foulest names in the land and I would still serve you.”

“I suppose we should see to other business. Ser Marc, what news of our levies?” she asked, turning to her master of arms. Ser Marc had not spoken, only standing off to the side and observing the events with silent interest.

Stepping forward, he bowed before speaking. “Recovery proceeds slowly but steady, Your Grace. At last count, the North can raise six thousand warriors in less then a fortnight. With the new numbers from the hill clans coming in, I am confident that we will be able to raise ten thousand within a month.”

Sansa nodded. “Let us hope it does not come to that, but it is good news given the losses we have suffered. For now, the quality of our warriors is more important. Focus on training and finding or bartering good quality materials for our smiths.”

"Of course, Your Grace.” he bowed before stepping back into line with the others.

“If there is nothing else, my lords – you are dismissed.” she gestured. As her advisors filed out of the hall, Sansa sighed, relaxing in her seat.

Resting a hand on her stomach, she felt her child within. There were moments when she could feel her son or daughter move inside of her, the sensation odd but heartening to know that he or she was so active even now, before birth.

Maester Wolkan had assured her that this was a normal occurrence, that as the child grew they would become more active.

The sound of footsteps echoed, stirring her from thought. Maester Wolkan approached, bowing as he did so. “I apologize for interrupting, Your Grace.” he smiled, holding up a scroll. “A raven from Kingshouse. Lord Magnar reports that the last of the grain has arrived safe.”

Sansa nodded. The process of moving the grain across the water was risky, and a few fishing boats had already been lost due to particularly hazardous waves. “A relief, then. No more ships were lost?”

“None.” he answered. “If I may, Your Grace – are you well?” the maester looked to her stomach, where her hand rested. “Are you feeling any pains or discomfort, perhaps?”

Shaking her head, Sansa took the scroll. “I can feel the child moving. Very much so, today.”

“The further on you get, the child will start to move more and more. I expect that he or she will start to kick sooner then later.” he responded, “I have seen unborn children start to kick as early as their sixth month. If you require anything else, please do not hesitate.”

After he left the hall Sansa got to her feet, struggling up from the seat. There were days that her stomach made it difficult to get up and move about the castle. Moving to the window, she looked out into the courtyard, watching the people go about their days.

Watching the people of Winterfell made her think of Jon more. It did not make sense, but she thought of him down there, training the boys and men how to fight or helping the builders with repairs. Things he did that helped endear him to the people. She also had glimpses of him in her minds eye with their child, showing their son how to hold a sword or their daughter how to hold a bow.

She felt emotional at the thought. He had been gone for two months, and her heart felt as though he had been gone two years. The worst part was the goodbyes, such as when he went south to treat with the Dragon Queen, or to fight in her war in King's Landing. But, that was the past and she could not think of that – else it hold them back, their feelings trapped in bitterness and sorrow.

The fight against the cold ones was important – still, she wished that someone else had gone in his place. But that was Jon; it was part of why she loved him, after all. He would go to the ends of the earth for his people. Take on any challenge that came their way.

She hoped that he would not take umbrage to being crowned. Sansa had found the best carpenter in the North to craft him a seat worthy of a King to rule at her side. She had yet to see it – wishing to maintain the surprise for his return.

Thanks to Bran, there was more then a crown and a royal seat waiting for him upon his return. He had sent the raven with the proclamation officially pardoning Jon for the crime of regicide against Daenerys, declaring that he acted in the best interests of the land and people.

It had not been hard to convince Bran to do this – given he now had his own body back.

* * *

  
Exiting the hall, Commander Snow bowed his head to her. “I wish to visit the crypts, Commander.” she informed him, starting for the courtyard, her guards following quickly behind.

She knew the castle inside and out; as it's Queen she had to. It took no time for her to reach the tombs of the ancient Starks. Grasping a torch from the wall she descended into the darkness alone, her guard remaining at the entrance.

The first memorials she came across belonged to her lord father and lady mother. She had insisted that statues for the entire family of fallen Starks be raised, given the unprecedented circumstances of their deaths in such short succession.

Pausing before them, she reached out to feel the stone of her mother's face._ I was a model lady_, she recalled with some bitterness. _A perfect southern maiden. _

Her mother had always doted upon Sansa, and she had been quick to take after her in mannerisms and faith. But that was long ago, that Sansa had died in the capital – her mother following not long after at the Red Wedding.

“We talked about my children, Mother.” she said aloud. “Do you remember? I would marry the king and have his babies?” Sansa laughed at the absurdity of her devotion to Joffrey.

Her eyes swam with tears. “Well, I will have a babe soon. I wish you were here to meet your grandchild. Both you and Father. I wish...I wish you all could be here.”

She looked to both statues. “I wonder what you would think of my choice of beloved, Mother. I know you did not like him, did not want him raised here.” she explained, recalling the sad memories of Jon as a child – isolated and alone, loved by Robb but shunned by others. “I wish you could have known that Father never dishonoured you. But I know Jon will be a good father to your grandchild.”

Placing a kiss on the stone faces, she moved to the next statue just a few steps down. Robb's statue looked the most like Sansa remembered of his face, though he was standing in a heroic pose with blade held high, crown upon his head. Grey Wind – his loyal direwolf – stood next to him with teeth bared.

_A bit silly_, she thought. _But how best to suit the Young Wolf? _A small platform sat unused next to Robb on his left, meant for his Volantene wife – Talisa's remains were no longer here, however.

After her uncle Edmure returned Robb and hers remains to Winterfell, Sansa had sent word to her family – wealthy landowners in the ancient Valyrian colony. They had requested their daughter's remains be returned so that she could lay in the crypts of their ancestors.

“I hope you forgive me for giving your bride back to her family, Robb.” Sansa smiled, resting a hand on the statue's chest. “I know you loved her very much. And she loved you, I'm sure.” She knew next to nothing about Robb's marriage, only that many blamed his decision to wed her as the reason he lost the war.

“You always loved Jon. I think you would still love him as a brother even if you knew the truth.” she rested her free hand on her stomach. “He will be a good king, just as you were. I promise.”

After kissing her brother's stone cheek, she moved to the last of the new statues. Rickon and Shaggydog. The youngest Stark was sat upon a stone throne, as per Sansa's instructions. She had wanted him to be remembered as a proud, strong boy who had endured the horrors of being alone. Shaggydog sat at his side, teeth barred in an excellent bit of work by the stone carver.

“I wish we could have saved you, Rickon.” Sansa had carried the guilt of his death since the day he was struck down. She knew that Jon could not save him, but it still made her feel horrible all the same. “I wish I could have thought of something, to bring you back to us alive and unharmed.”

She wiped at her eyes again, the torch crackling next to her. “I still remember you, wild and happy. I doubt that I will ever forgive myself for what happened to you. But we...we took back our home, little brother. You can rest easy now.”

The next statue she visited was that of Lyanna Stark, her aunt – and Jon's mother. She had never met her, only knowing about her from the tales that her father told, and from what the history books had spoken of.

“I know this is not what you had in mind for a good daughter, Aunt Lyanna.” she chuckled, “but I can promise that Jon is good to me. He always has been, even when we were children. You would be so proud of him – he is everything a Stark should be.” The only times that Sansa ever saw anything resembling his sire was when Jon would grow angry; she would sense the hot rage in his voice and in his eyes, but it would be gone quickly.

“I hope you are at peace.” she whispered. “You, Father, Uncle Brandon and Uncle Benjen.” The stone carver had yet to finish Benjen's statue, which would sit beside Lyanna's. Yet he estimated it would only take another week or two once more stone arrived from White Harbour.

Turning to the exit, Sansa started for the stairs. It was good to visit her family – even if they were only cruel memorials to the once vibrant Starks and their children. Once their child was born, she and Jon would bring him or her down here to meet their grand-parents and uncles.

Ascending the stairs, she smiled back at the statues of her mother and father as they were bathed in darkness again. Yet, they would never be forgotten – no matter what was to come.

* * *


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for delay, was busy working a lot!
> 
> EXTRA NOTE: when this story is done there will be an epilogue at the end that will be multiple chapters, so just a heads up

Jon held Longclaw to her throat. His hand wavered, the blade swaying slightly as he looked to her ice eyes. Confusion rang through his mind; the entirety of this quest was to defeat an enemy that wanted to be destroyed?

She smiled at him; the gesture both chilling and genuine. He sensed a warmth behind the mask, the bitter cold around him ebbing and flowing at once. “I know you hesitate, Aegon.” she mused, folding her hands in her lap. “Your way is honour and justice.”

“All this death...all of this suffering. Why was it necessary?” he asked. Longclaw felt like a weight in his hands; but he knew it shouldn't. This was what he came to do – to defeat the threat to his people, to Sansa and her throne.

That threat was on her knees before him. Yet he felt something more, now – empathy? Pity? Compassion? _The visions,_ he realized.

“The history of men is full of death and suffering.” she replied, “I am offering you a chance to end a threat quickly and easily. Mine followers shall lay for eternal sleep as the priests lace their meals. Once I am destroyed you and your queen will be free to rule as thou see fit.”

“This is too...simple.” he mumbled. “There...there must be more to this.” His mind swam with possibilities; an ambush, a feint – what was it?

She shrugged, her eyes never leaving his. “It is that simple, Aegon. Your mind simply wishes to disbelieve as thine foes have tricked you before. Strike me down so I may finally be free of mine torment. I hath shown you the visions – my visions. I long for the end I hath been denied so I may be with him.”

_It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg._

Jon cursed the late maester for his revelations – yet, he knew that it was correct. Just as he had pondered said words during their journey here, it was a situation where he had to lead. _Here is a chance to protect my people – and she says it is as simple as that. _

Kneeling before her, Jon held the blade to the glowing black circle embedded into her chest. She made no move, save her eyes gazing to the sword. “I wish thee all the happiness denied to mine own soul, Aegon.”

The blade slid through her body as though it were water, a great sound of shattering glass the only one in the structure. There was no blood, no scream or cry – only a solid push as the blade ran out of her back.

She collapsed forward, crumpling into his arms. Her skin grew less pale, as the cold aura around them abruptly stopped. The eyes, once ice blue, were now a shade of green as they looked up at him, fluttering open and shut.

“Your Queen is...is a worthy woman of you.” she gasped. Jon opened his mouth to say something before he felt her lips upon his, the kiss a fleeting gesture of failing life. “Treasure her and your family, Aegon. That is all I ask.”

“I will.” he nodded. Gently, he took her body and laid it down upon the floor.

Jon placed Longclaw back into its sheath. He looked down at the body again, watching as cracks began to appear upon her exposed skin. A faint sound – that of glass breaking – filled his ears as a fine powder began to appear underneath her.

He said a prayer for her; this tormented soul who had endured thousands of years of horror and pain.

_We cannot stay in the past_, he thought. Jon saw the funeral pyre he built for Ygritte – the first woman he had ever loved. She was always there, in the recesses of his mind – even now, years after she was gone.

She would find this all hilarious, he mused. _You know nothing, Jon Snow. _

* * *

He found Val, Tormund and the others at the great weirwood where they had left them.

“Is it done?” Val asked, looking over his shoulder.

Jon nodded. His eyes gazed to the priest that stood with them, the man's weirwood mask masking an impassive face.

“He's been here for a few minutes.” Tormund gestured to the man. “Won't say nothin', but that he was waitin' for it to be done.”

“The village should be dead now.” The priest – Einjar, Jon recalled – noted. “The poison delivered was fast acting for the ascension to take place with her own.” He took his mask and threw it to the ground, a smile forming on his face.

Bulwer looked suspicious. “What ascension?”

Einjar laughed. “Something you will never understand, crow. I go to the Divine Ones now.”

Before Jon could react, the priest had drawn a dagger and ran it across his throat, collapsing to the ground in a torrent of blood. The smile still rested upon his face even as the life force fled from his body.

Stepping back, Tormund looked to him. “So...what now?” he asked, gazing at the corpse.

Jon looked to the huts. “Leave the dead where they lie. The Others will not raise them. It was what they would want.” he said, gesturing to the gate. “If you want us to burn our dead, we should begin at once.” He looked out over the now desolate village. The silence was almost deafening.

“Our men are still waiting at the gate.” Bulwer gestured, “I hope they were not harmed.”

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Jon looked to find Val. “Are you alright?” she asked, offering a sympathetic smile.

He nodded, feeling a sense of relief starting to wash over him – even here, despite the morbid situation around them. “Fine.” he smiled back, squeezing her hand tight.

“Time to get home to the wolf queen.” she laughed, “I'm sure she'll show how much she missed you.”

Jon stifled a laugh as they started for the gate. Soon, he would be back in the arms of the woman he loved, and he would be able to start building their life together, one free of as much as pain and suffering as possible.

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

To do that, he would stand at her side when he needed to; there was no more need for him to hide away, to skirt the responsibilities that he knew he would need to carry out. Anything would be enough to ensure that their home and family were safe and prosperous.

_I am coming home, Sansa. _

* * *


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter coming soon! but stay tuned after the finale there will be a 2-3 part epilogue starring a new character.

The first thing Jon noticed as his party entered the courtyard was the applause and cheers from the various guards, servants, cooks, stable hands and other staff of Winterfell. Even as his horse was lead into the stables and he dismounted, the applause continued.

“Look at that!” grinned Tormund as he slapped him on the back, “guess they don't hate you no more, baby crow!”

It was not a reception that he had expected, that was for certain. He had merely done what was needed to ensure the safety of the North, no matter the cost. Jon still thought of the dozens of black brothers and Free Folk who had been slain in their journey.

Even though he knew – all too well – that men die in war, and that a leader must command those at times to follow them into situations that could result in their deaths, it was a burden that weighed heavy all the same.

The Free Folk leaders and Commander Denys had assured him that the fallen would be remembered, and that gave him some measure of succour.

Jon put on a smile as a small crowd swarmed him, slapping him on the shoulders and back.

“Now THIS is a reception!” shouted Tormund, joining in the revelry as he slapped backs and shoulders as he went, winking at several giggling women.

Val simply rolled her eyes, smirking playfully. “Careful, Tormund – might have some jealous lovers about.” she teased as he wrapped his arm around her.

“Would never dream of leaving you out, darlin'!” he shot back, wrapping his arm around her.

Walking through the yard Jon nodded to those who crowded him, showering praise upon him for his “daring” work in defeating more savages. He accepted a bunch of flowers from a young girl, who smiled shyly from behind her mother's skirt.

“Apologies, m'lord. Daisy! Come say hi to Lord Jon.” she said, gesturing the little girl forward.

Jon dropped to one knee and the girl wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “Hello, Daisy.” he smiled, kissing her on the forehead. The girl blushed beet red and quickly pulled away, playing with her pigtails.

Rising to his feet, Jon continued to the castle with his flowers in hand. The doors to the keep were open and guards had moved aside, kneeling respectfully to him.

As he entered the keep, Jon spied Davos near the doors to the great hall.

“There's the conquerin' hero!” the Onion Knight shouted, embracing him in a tight hug. “I knew you'd come back no problem!”

Jon hugged him back, happy to see his old friend. “Did what we had to do, Davos. Nothing more.” he said frankly. The Night Queen and her visions had been sobering for him, as he realized the woman was – despite her otherworldly nature – a broken soul in search of some form of redemption.

_One that could only be found in death. _

“Still, you saved the North once again.” Davos assured him, “and there's better news. King Bran sent the decree just last week – he's pardoned you, lad. Absolute and unequivocal – as it should be. You and I both know what happened in King's Landing.”

A shiver ran up his spine. The unpleasant memories of that hellish destruction was – and would always – trouble him no matter how much he was able to move on with his own life. Still, he felt a sense of satisfaction that his son or daughter would not know him as a monster he thought he was.

“That's...that's good.” he said, offering a soft smile. “How is Bran? Is he settling alright?”

“He is! The letter mentioned his reform of the small council. I understand he's removed Lord Tyrion and a few others from their posts – to allow him to better govern as a ruler, as he puts it.” Davos explained.

“I know he will do good for the Six Kingdoms.” Jon replied, looking to the double doors of the great hall. His anxious expression only drew a smirk from Davos, who waited a moment in silence as if to torment him.

“The Queen waits in her chambers for you.” he whispered, offering a saucy wink.

A blush crept up Jon's face as he looked for the stairs, making his way up as fast as he could – without appearing a fool.

* * *

“Come in.” called the voice from the door.

Jon's heart fluttered at hearing her again. _Be calm, Jon. Steady. _

Sansa sat at her desk, writing on some parchment. Jon noted at once she was wearing her sleeping robe and bit back a smirk. She stood up and turned to face him, her face a stony mask of royalty.

“So you return at last, my lord.” she said, folding her hands behind her back.

“Apologies for my delay, Your Grace.” he bowed, chewing the sides of his cheek. “The task was...great, and the effort even greater. It was a...struggle for us to complete.”

She took a step forward, her long hair flowing gloriously behind her. “I see.” she noted, clucking her tongue. “Yet I did not know of your return. Am I not your Queen, my lord?”

“You are.”

Her stomach had grown significantly since he had left, and the sight of her filled Jon with a sense of elation that was difficult to hide. Their child growing inside of her – and with her so visibly showing it was a constant reminder of what they had managed to create.

Taking another step, Sansa folded her arms. Even though she was putting on a stony facade, Jon saw the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried to hide her grin. “If you had not returned – you would have disobeyed your Queen's command. That would be treason.”

Jon felt his breeches – tattered and filthy as they were – stirring as his cock grew hard. “I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Your Grace. I endeavour to redeem myself.”

Sansa nodded. Uncrossing her arms, she unlaced her robe and let it fall to the floor. She wore nothing but a pair of silken small-clothes that rested beneath her stomach, with a pair of black hose that rose to her knees.

“Then do so.” she whispered, and was in his arms before he could respond.

* * *

“I hope that no one was listening.” he said after they had finished, a sheen of sweat coating his body.

Sansa nodded, “If they were, well then – let the legend spread.” she panted, doing her best to catch her breath.

They both laughed in unison, Sansa leaning into him for a kiss that was tender and sweet. The copious lovemaking they had indulged in had been almost as intense as his first time back to the castle – a memory Jon thought would be eclipsed by this time.

“I am glad you are home, Jon. Both of us are.” she smiled, rubbing her stomach gently.

Jon rested a hand over top hers, shaking his head in disbelief. “I never thought someone like me could have something as...as...wonderful as this.”

“Well, you do.” she assured him, kissing him again. “and no matter how much you try to resist, there will be no shirking duties as a parent.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Speaking of duties, what will my queen have of me now?”

Sansa ran a free hand over his chest, fingers teasing his coarse fur. “A Queen must have a king, my lord.” she smiled, placing a kiss to his right nipple, working her lips over from it. “and as such I have had a crown fit for one made.”

He groaned at her kisses, hand running through her loose and wild hair. “Unfair.”

Within moments she straddled on top of him, their hands intertwined as she grinned. “A Queen cannot play fair. Now, are you the man to wear that crown? I must know, my lord.”

If she had asked him before, he would have refused outright. Leadership had never been something sought after for him – but now, he had come to realize that he was the preferred choice of the woman he loved, he would need to stop shirking his responsibilities and accept that burden.

“For you, my Queen, always.” he smiled.

“Good. Your coronation is set for tomorrow after our ceremony in the Godswood.” Sansa put his hands over her stomach, “after all, I cannot very well crown a man I am not married to.”

_Life is funny_, Jon mused. _Very funny indeed. _

* * *


	40. update

hi friends, I want to thank you for the kind words and love you have given this story! 

just wanted to give you an update that it might be a little longer for the conclusion then I would like. my mental state has partially collapsed over the last week(I suffer from anxiety and depression) and the nerve damage in my hands is acting up to the nth degree. 

so I wanted to apologize for a lack of updates for a while, perhaps 2 weeks or more. but I promise when things have calmed down with me and my mind and body are working again in good order I will be back to write the last few chapters! 

much love to you all and thank you!


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> want to thank you guys for bearing with me on my long break! I know this final chapter is short but I feel like Jon has finally come to terms with what he has to do. :) 
> 
> The epilogue, I may post as a separate story when it is done. So stay tuned! <3

Jon's hands trembled as he buttoned up his tunic. “Damn nerves,” he said, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “I can handle battles against the living dead but not a coronation ceremony.”

It was enough to make him laugh, if the situation was not as terrifying as he thought it to be. He was ready – that much was known to him. He had to be the leader and husband Sansa wanted of him, to give their child a proper father who would show him or her how to rule at their mother's side.

_Doesn't mean I am not allowed to be afraid,_ he thought.

He and Sansa's official wedding had not made him as nervous; it was a small affair attended by only a few, mostly the council and a handful of guards. Enough to be assured that the Queen was married; ravens were now being sent to the corners of the North to proclaim it so.

No consummation was needed – her swollen belly was proof of that. But, it still left the need for him to take his place at her side and wear the crown she had specially made for him; something that thrilled him not. A left over from his past, he knew. When he was the bastard unworthy of such gifts from such fine a lady.

Ghost stared up at him from his left, Jon dropping to one knee and petting him softly. The big wolf responded with an affectionate lick across his cheek. “I missed you too, boy.” he whispered, and Ghost replied with a gentle nuzzle.

The ceremony in the godswood had finished not an hour ago – Sansa was nothing if not quick in regards to this matter. Still, he had to change into something more formal – after all, a King does not sit a throne wearing armour and a dirty cloak.

What would he be like as a ruler? He'd already been one – albeit for a short and tense time – but this would be a whole new experience. The North was at peace and independent, with no risk of war or conflict from their southern neighbours. It was easy for a man to say they wish to be a good king or a wise one, but when faced with strife – how would he respond?

He would push on, as he always had. He had Sansa, he had his friends – Ser Davos, Tormund and the others – and Ghost. Soon, he would have a son or daughter to call his own; one he would be able to watch grow up, if the gods were good.

Buckling Longclaw to his belt, he looked himself over in the mirror. His outfit, while simple, was regal enough in repose – a black and white overcoat with the direwolf of Stark sewn into the breast with a simple tunic underneath, along with a pair of black woollen pants and a thick pair of black boots. The materials were quite clearly of high quality, as the whole outfit was clean and spotless.

_The mark of a Lord_, he thought. He remembered his lord father wearing such an ensemble when receiving formal guests, such as King Robert.

A knock at the door. “Lad? Are you ready? It's time.” called Ser Davos.

“Well, to another chapter.” he said to himself quietly as he stepped away from the mirror.

* * *

The Great Hall was full of spectators, Jon noted right away as the doors were opened for him. A wide range of people – from the council, to servants and small-folk, and even a few of the local lords were in attendance.

All knelt at the sight of him, the guards along the walls doing the same.

Sansa stood near the hearth, her hands folded over her stomach. A beaming smile was across her face as she gestured to the throne next to her; his seat, Jon knew. There was no turning back now – he had come this far, and he must go further.

As he walked down the path, inching his way closer to Sansa and his seat, his stomach continued to ache – the nerves were continuing to make him feel as though he were having a great sword plunged into his insides. Was this how Sansa felt when she was proclaimed Queen? No, he knew – she was prepared and ready for such a thing.

Jon also spotted – near the front of the hall – Tormund and Val, who stood against the wall with a group of Free Folk. He smiled as they raised their horns to him, grinning all the while. He knew the Free Folk would never kneel to a king or queen, and he accepted this – it was nice to see that there were still those who would treat him as Jon Snow, no matter what he wore.

He stopped before Sansa, sweat trickling down his brow. She reached out a hand and he pressed it to his lips. She looked as beautiful as ever, even though he had seen her in the same dress many times before.

“Take your seat, my lord.” she gestured, her smile never fading.

The chair was firm but sturdy – as befitting something of the North. This was not the south, where pomp and luxury were held in reverence; the thrones of the King and Queen should reflect where they ruled, and the North was a land of hearty and tough folk who cared more for survival then appearance.

She turned towards the crowd. “As Queen in the North I, Sansa of the House Stark, First of my Name, do hereby proclaim you, Jon of the House Stark, First of Your Name and King in the North!” she announced, taking the crown from Maester Wolkan.

The crown felt cold and hard upon his head, and Jon nodded in approval – it was as it should be.

Sansa took her seat, taking his hand in her own. Jon could feel his heart beating fast, threatening to jump from his chest at any moment. She smiled at him, squeezing his hand tightly in her own.

“THE KING AND QUEEN IN THE NORTH!” someone shouted.

Within moments, the hall was on its feet with swords raised high.

“THE KING AND QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

“THE KING AND QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

“THE KING AND QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

The room cheered its new rulers, many of the older veterans having tears in their eyes.

_Long live the King,_ Jon thought with a small smile. _Kill the boy, Jon Snow – Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

_Let us see what kind of man I will be._

* * *


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> epilogue, sorry it's so short!

His son's birth is easy and not at all complicated, and Jon thanks the gods of the north for that fact.

As he holds the little bundle in his arms, he looks at the little blue eyes that stare back at him. The newborn's arms fuss this way and that, as he coos happily in his grasp. Jon cannot help but smile; he has a child to call his own. Something he never dreamed of.

“Have you...thought of a name?” Sansa asks, sitting up in her birthing bed.

Jon turns, shaking his head. “Sansa, you need to sleep -” he starts to stay before she cuts him off.

“I am fine, Jon. Really.” she assures him, “and I figure that since this is our first son that his father should have the honours.”

There are a litany of names that he wishes to pick. Eddard, after the man who raised him – the father in all but blood. Edd, after the friend who stood by his side against the Others and died to save humanity. Benjen, the uncle who was always there.

Even Robb or Rickon, after his fallen siblings.

But then a name comes to mind that he had originally dismissed; one that reminds him of the lessons he had been taught as a simple steward. How to lead, how to command, how to inspire and respect and truly stand for what was right. No matter the cost.

“Jeor.” he says with a confident smile. “A good Northern name.”

Sansa nods. “Jeor Stark. It rolls off the tongue.” she beams.

Jon looks back down at their son. He's already drifted off to sleep; he sits down on the edge of the bed, letting Sansa fuss over his tiny hands. His hands run gently through the full head of silver hair the babe has; something which makes him feel remotely uncomfortable.

_The legacy of your blood_, he cannot help but think. It was a possibility he'd discussed with Maester Wolkan; the man explained that some with Targaryen blood would skip the usual look of silver hair and purple eyes – such as what happened to him.

Yet other times thanks to random chance, one or both of the traits would be there. Thankfully, Jeor had his mother's eyes. He hoped that the mockery would be kept to a minimum – though who would dare mock the heir to the North?

“I love you, little one.” he whispers, kissing his son on the forehead.

Sansa kisses his cheek, passing the sleeping babe to the wet-nurse who places him in the crib next to their bed.

“I love you, Jon.” she says, “I know you will be a wonderful father to him.”

_He will have the life I wished for as a child. He will know love and peace. _


End file.
